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UNDER  AN  ALIAS. 

A    STO  R Y    OF 

lllar,  of  jF.ervc  and  of  Co^rada. 


By  H.  B.  Jeffries. 


Illustrations  by  J.   H.  Mills  and  ('.  Ohamberlin. 


Copyright  secured  and  all  rights  reserved. 


DENVER,  COLO.: 

TIMES    STEAM    PRINTING    HOUSE    AND    BLANK    BOOK    MANUFACTORY. 

l883. 


THIS  VOLUME, 
COMPRISING    THE  STOR  Y 

— OF— 

A  YOUTHFUL  SOLDIER, 

THE    AUTHOR 

DEDICA  TES 
TO    THE    INDIVIDUAL    MEMBERS 

— OF     THE — 

GRAND  ARMY   OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

FOR  THOSE  WHO  WORTHILY  WORE  THE  BLUE 

HE      CHERISHES 

THE  RESPECT  AND  LOVE 

WHICH 

COURAGE    AND     PATRIOTISM 

MERIT       FROM 

ALL     GOOD     CITIZENS, 

REGARDLESS    OF 

The  Nationality,  The  Religion  and  the  Politu  s 

OF    THE    HEEOES. 

H.  B.   JEFFRIES. 


939858 


sJ\propo&. 


It  is  with  no  inconsiderable  timidity  that  this 
volume  is  submitted  to  the  public.  I  am  unknown 
— "only  a  common  reporter'' — without  pretensions 
to  literary  skill,  and  I  realize  how  essential  to  suc- 
cess an  established  name  is  for  one  who  presents 
himself  as  an  author,  however  humble  his  produc- 
tion. Yet  friends  of  acknowledged  literary  abilities 
and  standing,  who  have  seen  this  story  in  manu- 
script, have  been  kind  enough  to  manifest  an  interest 
in,  and  to  praise  it,  somewhat,  and  to  urge  its  publi- 
cation in  book  form;  and  their  flattering  urgency 
has  prevailed  over  my  own  timidity  and  doubts — 
as  friends  of  countless  other  authors  have  heretofore 
prevailed — and  I  cannot  think  of  violating  such  an 
honored  custom  by  neglecting  to  throw  the  onus  of 
this  publication  upon  my  good  friends.  "Under  an 
Alias "  and  "  Caught  by  a  Veil "  were  prepared  as 
portions  of  "'The  Tribulations  of  a  Tenderfoot,"  a 
volume  which  I  expect  to  publish  within  a  few 
weeks,  and  which  is  at  present  in  the  hands  of  the 
artists  who  illustrated  this  volume.  But  as  that  is 
a  book  of  amusing  Colorado  experiences  solely,  the 
introduction  of  these  stories  I  found  to  be  a  mistake 
and  they  were  therefore  eliminated  without  any 
thought  of  preservation  or  of  publication  in  any 
other  form,  and   it   was  onlv  by  the  solicitation   of 


friends  that  I  was  led  to  redeem  them  from  the 
limbo  of  a  dark  closet.  It  is  now  for  the  public 
to  determine  whether  they  merit  that  banishment 
or  this  freedom  and  honor. 

"Caught  by  a  Veil,"  like  "Under  an  Alias,"  is 
the  story  of  a  youthful  soldier  and  his  fortunes  and 
misfortunes  in  love-making,  and  will  appear  in  form 
similar  to  this  very  soon. 

Should  my  comrades  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the 
Republic  who  visit  our  fair  City  of  the  Plains  this 
summer  read  the  story  in  this  volume,  no  doubt 
some  of  them  will  think  that  the)'  recognize  cer- 
tain characters  and  certain  incidents  And  perhaps 
they  may,  for  some  of  the  characters  are  far  from 
imaginary,  and  some  of  the  incidents  are  real. 

If  the  public  finds  the  text  of  this  book  as  satis- 
factory as  they  are  certain  to  find  the  illustrations, 
I  shall  know  that  my  work  has  merit,  for  the  artists 
— J.  Harrison  Mills  and  C.  Chamberlin — have  cer- 
tainly produced  work  which  must  arrest  attention 
and  elicit  admiration. 

H.  B.  Jeffries. 

Denver,    Colorado,  July  4th  t   1883. 


CHAPTEB   I 


Marriec(    in    Jfa^te, 


||rTHUR,  when  J  didn't  know,  I  always 

thought   that    love    grew — came  by 

&    degrees,  advanced    by  imperceptible 

p|   gradations ;  that  one  first  mildly  ad- 

N"v.    mired,    then    admired    and    liked,    till 


P        liking  thus  grew  to  love." 

"Ah,  sweet,  that  only  shows  how  cold  and  stony 
your  little  heart  has  always  been." 

••Now,  how  wicked  of  you  to  talk  so  about  my 
heart,  when  it  is  ablaze  with  fervent  love  of  you  !" 

"And  if  it  were  but  at  temperate  heat  of  love  for 
any  other  man  I  should  be  in  such  despair  that  I 
would  desert  so  that  I  might  be  taken  and  shot  to 
death.  But,  darling,  I  can't  say  that  1  ever  gave  a 
thought  to  love  till  I  saw  you;  then  it  came  to  me 
as  a  swift,  sweet  revelation  from  heaven." 

"Oh,  Arthur  !  you  will  always  tell  me  that  ?  You 
will  always  feel  that?  You  will  not  weary  of  uic'f 
You   have  not   in   a   little,  obscure  corner  of  your 


heart  a  hidden  recollection  of  some  other  one  you 
have  thought  of  fondly  ?  You  are  sure  that  you 
never  did  love  anyone  else?  But,  there!  don't 
weary  of  me,  or  be  angry  for  my  jealousy — for 
jealousy  is  only  love  in  its  most  intense  form.,, 

Beautiful  arms,  bared  to  the  shoulder,  twined 
about  his  neck,  a  beautiful  face  rested  over  his  heart, 
beautiful — such  supremely  beautiful — love-lit  eyes 
looked  up  into  his  own  during  that  earnest  pleading 
for  the  sole  tenancy  of  his  heart ;  and  Arthur  Cor- 
rinne  felt  that  it  must  be  a  stolid  nature  that  would 
not  be  moved  ;  an  insatiable  heart  that  could  require 
purer  love  or  greater  devotion. 

"No,  no,  darling;  jealousy  is  love  distorted — dis- 
trust—the hideous  deformity  of  love  !  No,  you  need 
not  let  such  phantasies  disturb  you.  I  am  too  young 
to  have  ever  loved  before  ;  too  entirely  happy  in  your 
love  to  ever  long  for  other  love." 

"But  don't  you  love  me  enough  to  ever  be  jealous? 
What  if  I  should  love  some  one  else?" 

"You  see  that  it  is  not  to  be  considered,  because 
your  little  heart  is  every  bit  mine:  I  fill  every  nook, 
cranny  and  corner  of  it." 

"But  if  I  should,  or  if  you  should  really  think 
I  did,  what  would  you  do?" 

"In  my  misery  of  heart  I'd  quietly  kill  myself. 
I  wish  I  could  live  and  you  could  live  till  that 
happens!  Now,  if  I  should  fall  in  love  with  some 
other  little  woman,  what  would  vou  do,  Eliza?" 


—  13— 

"Kill  her.  kill  you.  go  mad,  mad,  mad  !  All  !  I 
should  do  everything  that  is  terrible,  or  horrible,  or 
fearful !  Don't  ask  me,  Arthur,  for  even  the  bare 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  horror  rends 
my  reason  and  shrinks  and  shrivels  my  very  soul ! 
I  should  go  wild,  go  wild,  wild  in  my  desperation  !"' 

"There,  there,  sweet,  do  not  harbor  the  thought, 
or  entertain  such  an  apprehension.  Life  is  designed 
for  happiness,  and  we  should  cultivate  only  pleasant 
thoughts  which  will  brighten  our  hours,  not  seek 
those  that  darken  our  days,  distort  both  heart  and 
mind,  and  convert  life  into  a  burden  grievous  to  be 
borne.     Let  us  walk  up  to  Bolivar  Heights." 

The  lovers — married  lovers  they  were — went  out 
into  the  street  and  pursued  their  walk,  enjoying,  as 
only  the  young  and  the  ardent  can,  the  fresh  bright- 
ness of  nature's  new  suit  of  verdure;  the  balmy, 
mellow,  perfume-laden  air:  the  soft,  caressing  sun- 
shine which  nature  brings  when  she  comes  to  greet 
us  in  wooing  mood  at  springtime. 

It  was  at  Harper's  Ferry,  late  in  March,  1862, 
and  the  historic  little  town  at  the  confluence  of  the 
picturesque  Potomac  and  the  beautiful  Shenandoah 
was  occupied  by  Federal  forces.  The  streets  were 
crowded  full  of  blue-clad  soldiers,  and  the  young 
lovers  were  accorded  many  cheerful  greetings  as 
they  walked  along.  At  the  corner  of  High  and 
Shenandoah  streets  they  met  Captain  Copeland,  of 
Arthur's  company. 


—  14— 

"Where  now,  Arthur?"  the  Captain  asked. 
"For  a  walk ;  just  up  to  the  Heights." 
"Don't  dally  till  you  miss  roll-call.  Mrs.  Cor- 
rinne,  you  must  drive  him  away  from  you  when  it 
is  time  for  him  to  be  in  camp ;  you  know  we  can't 
be  always  excusing  him  for-absence  from  roll-call ; 
it  is  necessary  to  preserve  discipline,  even  with  worthy 
soldiers  who  have  pretty  wives  in  town." 

"But  I  don't  have  to  drive  him  away,  ever  ;  he's 
always  in  hurry  enough  to  go,  and  I  detain  him  till 
m}7  fear  that  you  will  send  a  file  of  soldiers  after 
him  overcomes  my  anxiety  to  keep  him." 

"How  inconsistent  he  must  be,  then !  I,  too, 
have  trouble  enough  to  detain  him,  and  when  at 
quarters  he  is  always  in  a  terrific  haste  to  be  ex- 
cused and  get  away  to  you — as  I  own  I  should  be, 
were  I  so  fortunate  as  to  be  in  his  place." 

"I'm  so  glad  to  hear  that  of  him  that  I  will  be 
sure  to  have  him  in  camp  whenever  you  desire  him 
to  be  there,  if  I  know  when  it  is." 

As  they  separated,  Captain  Copeland  was  joined 
by  an  officer  of  the  Tenth  Wisconsin,  which  had 
only  arrived  the  preceding  day. 

"Is  that  a  soldier  of  your  command?"  the 
stranger  inquired. 

"Yes;  a  private  in  my  company." 

"What  regiment  is  yours?" 


—  15— 

"The  Twenty-eighth  Pennsylvania;  I  command 
Company  F." 

"Is  that  young  lady  his  sister  ?" 

"No,  she  is  his  wife." 

"His  wife !  why,  he  looks  even  too  young  to  be 
in  the  service  ;  and  she  is  certainly  not  over  fifteen 
years  old." 

"He  is  but  eighteen,  and  she  is  two  years  his 
junior." 

"Who  is  he?     Who  is  she?" 

"His  name  is  Arthur  Corrinne ;  she  was  a  Miss 
Virginia — Eliza  Virginia." 

"HowT  long  have  they  been  married  ?" 

"They  were  married  on  Christmas  day.  We 
crossed  the  river  and  took  possession  of  Harper's 
Ferry  just  a  week  before,  and  they  met  for  the  first 
time  the  day  we  occupied  the  town.  They  fell  in 
love  at  once,  or  thought  they  did,  and  I  think  so  as 
well.  He  is  a  very  good  soldier,  and  I  take  pleasure 
in  allowing  him  all  the  freedom  of  action  consistent 
with  fair  discipline." 

"They  are  very  young,  both ;  too  much  haste ; 
no  good  can  come  of  it. 

"I  hope  that  nothing  but  good  will  come  of  it. 
Corrinne  is  a  good  fellow — somewhat  fickle,  indeed, 
and  easily  influenced,  but  good-natured  and  without 
bad  habits.  He  lias  considerable  energy,  does  at 
once  what  he  intends  to  do  at  all.     When  old  enough 


i6- 


he  will  make  a  place  for  himself  in  the  world  and 
occupy  it  with  credit.  1  think  the  girl  has  clone 
well !" 

"Has  he  done  so  well  ?" 

''I  think  so ;  she  is  the  last  of  an  old  family,  and 
appears  to  be  wealthy.  She  is  deeply  in  love  with 
her  boy  husband  —  dangerously  fond  of  him,  I 
should  say,  for  I  have  but  that  fear  for  them.  I 
judge  only  from  what  I  have  observed  in  her — from 
her  physiognomy  and  form  :  from  the  brilliant  and 
sparkling  depths  of  her  eyes ;  the  sharp,  quick 
mobility  of  her  features ;  the  short,  decisive  and 
imperative  movements  of  her  head,  hands  and  per- 
son ;  and  from  the  intensity  of  her  passion  for  Cor- 
rinne.  Judging  from  all  these  criteria,  I  imagine 
that  she  has  not  only  an  ardent  nature  but  a  most 
terrific  temper,  and  should  she  become  jealous — and 
women  with  her  disposition  are  prone  to  jealousy — 
she  would  surely  harvest  a  swift  revenge  and  gar- 
ner unmeasured  misery  for  herself  and  others." 

''You  seem  to  be  an  expert  in  the  interpretation 
of  character  !     Is  Corrinne  of  a  wealthy  family  ?" 

"He  tells  me  so.  I  believe  they  live  at  Pottsville, 
or  up  there  somewhere ;  he  enlisted  in  my  company 
at  its  organization  at  Philadelphia. " 


CHAPTER   II, 


ehparf. 


;  YING  March  gave  birth  to  April,  and 
that  child  of  smiles  and  tears  had  lived 
half  her  life  before  the  young  lovers 
were  disturbed  by  what  they  from  the 
first  knew  to  be  inevitable — marching 
orders. 

What  years  of  happiness,  what  ages 
of  bliss,  were  concentrated  in  those  few  weeks  for 
them  ! 

The  free-reined  fancy  of  the  most  brilliant  and 
imaginative  romancist  could  not  conceive  a  passion 
so  all-absorbing  as  the  wild  delirium  of  love  that 
surged  through  the  tide-fretted  channels  of  Eliza's 
soul — a  fervent,  intense,  limitless  passion — an  ecstacy 
of  devotion  devouring  her  heart,  permeating  her 
being,  imprisoning  her  thought,  holding  her  an 
enthralled  prisoner  to  perpetual  delight — a  deli- 
cious, exquisite  joy,  barring  all  desire  and  wrecking 
her  capacity  for  other  joys  than  those  which  em- 


■20- 


anated  from  or  centered  in  that  one  supreme  emotion 
-  -her  love  for  her  husband. 

What  wonder,  then,  that  her  grief  was  so  de- 
structive when  she  was  compelled  to  yield  her  beloved 
to  the  chances  of  war?  It  was  turbulent,  uncon- 
trollable— a  tornado  of  despair  ! 

Weeping,  moaning,  grieving,  she  clung  to  him 
and  hung  upon  his  neck  with  those  lovely  arms, 
with  her  wailing  bosom  laid  upon  his  breast  even 
while  he  pursued  his  preparations  for  the  march. 
She  supplicated  official  permission  to  accompany 
the  command,  but  was  of  course  denied,  the  priv- 
ilege being  one  it  was  impossible  to  grant.  Her 
denunciation  of  the  officers  in  command  was  fear- 
fully violent.     Colonel  Geary  said  : 

"That  woman's  anger  is  more  terrifying  than 
the  rattle  of  the  foemen's  rifles.  I'd  rather  en- 
counter a  force  of  Confederates  than  be  again 
attacked  by  her!" 

"She  is  a  feerfool  razge;  I  would  run  from  her 
avay,  and  into  a  batteel  skeedaddle  fore  ze  sake  of 
peace  to  find !"  Lieutenant-Colonel  DeKorpony  re- 
plied. In  fact,  that  Polish  veteran  had,  as  he 
expressed  it,  "skedaddled  avay,"  and  left  the  Colonel 
without  hope  of  reinforcement  when  her  prayers 
were  denied. 

When  at  last  the  general  had  been  sounded,  the 
long  roll  was  beaten  and  the  company  was  ordered 
to  fall  in,  Captain  Copeland   humanely  bade  Cor- 


-2  1 


rinne  accompany  his  wife  home,  and  there  bid  her 
his  farewell  in  private  And  to  guard  against  a  too 
protracted  adieu,  a  non-commissioned  officer  was 
prudently  sent  as  an  escort. 

But  the  fire  of  her  grief  had  at  length  burned 
out  her  endurance !  Eliza  fainted  at  the  door,  and 
Corrinne  transferred  her  to  her  mother's  solicitous 
care,  while  he,  scarce  more  fit  for  duty  now  than  was 
his  unconscious  wife,  hastened  to  his  place  in  the 
ranks  of  the  departing  army. 


CHAPTER  III 


<sh  S^uaacoa^  @Y^anfec|. 


hi 

^  J)  HE  Twenty-eighth  marched  to  Leesburg, 

.   thence  to  Snickersville  and  Front  Royal 

and  for  months  afterwards  it  moved  up 

and  down   the  line   of  the   Manassas 


Division  of  the  Washington  and  Vir- 
ginia Railway,  between  Front  Royal 
and  Manassas  Junction.  The  frequent 
skirmishes  in  which  the  command  was  involved 
and  the  active  duties  of  a  soldier  at  the  front 
afforded  ample  distraction  for  Corrinne,  yet  at 
every  opportunity  he  wrote  long  and  loving  letters 
to  Eliza,  who  wrote  to  him  almost  daily ;  always 
urging  him  to  procure  a  furlough  and  visit  her  or 
to  arrange  for  her  to  visit  him;  and  as  the  weeks 
multiplied  and  months  were  added  to  the  months 
gone  before,  she  became  more  and  more  urgent, 

Once  she  wrote:  "I  must  see  you!  Oh,  my 
darling  love,  I  must  see  you!  I  have  so  much  to 
say  to  you,  and  it  must  not  be  written.     One  thing 


—26— 

I  have  to  impart — a  sweet  secret,  for  only  God  and 
you  and  me  to  know — which  will  delight  you  above 
all  the  glad  tidings  you  have  ever  heard." 

"  Ah,"  was  Corrinne's  thought  upon  reading  that : 
"I  wonder  what  that  can  be;  perhaps  she  has  fallen 
heir  to  a  fortune  she  had  no  suspicion  of  before." 

While  at  Rectortown,  Corrinne,  being  on  guard 
at  regimental  headquarters,  heard  Colonel  Geary 
say  to  Captain  Pardee : 

"  Captain,  I  have  a  letter  here  from  Doctor  Hast- 
ings, of  Johnstown,  Pennsylvania,  enclosing  one 
for  Compton  Hastings,  his  son,  who  ran  away  and 
enlisted  against  the  doctor's  wish.  He  says  that 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  boy  is  under  an  alias,  and 
he  has  no  certain  trace  of- him.  He  writes  to  me 
because  as  the  twenty-eighth  came  through  Wash- 
ington, Steele  Blair,  the  Congressman  from  that  dis- 
trict, chanced  to  see  us  and  noticed  a  familiar  young 
face  which  fixed  his  attention,  yet  whose  identity  he 
failed  to  recall  at  the  time,  though  it  subsequently 
suggested  the  boy  Hastings.  This  is  the  doctor's 
sole  clue — have  you  any  suspicion  which  might  aid 
the  doctor  in  the  discovery  of  his  son  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  no  one  from  Johnstown.  But  then, 
if  the  boy  has .  enlisted  under  an  assumed  name  he 
would  probably  give  a  fictitious  residence  as  well." 

"  I  think  so.  .  Let  it  be  known  among  your  men 
that  there  is  a  letter  here  for  Compton  Hastings  from 


—27— 

his  father.  I  will  cause  each  company  to  be  so  noti- 
fied and  we  will  then  see  if  the  boy  turns  up." 

The  contemplated  notice  having  been  given  and 
no  inquiries  for  the  letter  having  resulted,  after  sev- 
eral days  it  was  thought  best  to  respond  to  Doctor 
Hastings. 

But  the  letter  could  not  then  be  found. 


^"^fl* 


V 


CHAPTER  IV. 


©Jfte   ehfero    anil   tfie   eHero'£>  ©JafRer, 


4%n 

^v^^rLL  you  kindly  give  me  a  pass,  Cap- 
I  tain?'? 

'•Where  to,  Corrinne?" 
"Just  down  to  the  station." 
"You  were  on  duty  down  there  yes- 
terday " 

"Yes,  but  then  I  was  at  work.  I  want  to  lounge 
about,  free  to  do  ray  own  will.  To  see  who  comes 
and  who  goes  and  who  passes  by,  is  a  relief  from  the 
depressing  monotony  of  camp  routine." 

The  pass  was  issued  and  Corrinne  went  to  the 
little  station  and  on  the  platform  stretched  himself 
out  on  one  of  the  rough  benches  in  the  shade  until 
the  train  came  in  from  Manassas  Junction..  The 
passengers  were  few  and  almost  exclusively  soldiers  ; 
officers  preponderating,  of  course. 

Only  one  civilian  quitted  the  cars — a  hale,  good- 
natured  looking  man  in  mid-life.  He  stood  there, 
apart  from  others,  gripsack  in  hand,  waiting  for  the 


—32— 

train  to  move  away,  gazing  at  the  camp  on  the  hill- 
side beyond. 

Corrinne  touched  him  gently  and  said  quietly : 

"How  are  they  at  home,  father?  I  see  you  are 
well." 

"Why  Comp — Arthur,  my  boy!  God  bless  you! 
How  are  you?" 

The  glad  father  dropped  his  gripsack  and 
grasped  both  hands  of  his  boy,  while  in  his 
bright,  cheerful  eyes  tears  welled  up,  overflowing 
and  trickling  down   over  the  trim  black  beard 

"Come,"  said  Corrinne,  "  let  us  go  up  to  camp ;  I 
must  have  a  talk  with  you  before  you  chat  with  any- 
body else  here." 

"What  chance  brought  you  to  meet  the  train? 
Of  course  you  had  no  idea  that  I  would  be  here?" 

"  Well,  yes,  I  did  somewhat  expect  you.  Yes- 
terday I  was  on  guard  down  this  way  and  watched 
for  you;  to-day  I  got  a  pass;  I  should  have  con- 
trived to  be  here  again  to-morrow  had  you  not 
arrived  and  if  I  had  not  heard  from  you.  I  thought 
you  were  more  likely  to  come  than  to  write.  But 
you  have  not  told  me  how  mother  is?" 

"Perfectly  well,  God  bless  her,  and  as  happy  as 
she  can  be  while  fretting  for  you." 

"  You  came  very  near  calling  me  Compton  at 
first;  I  hope  you  will  be  particularly  careful  to  call 
me  nothing  but  Arthur.     As  I  wrote  to  ■  you,  while 


—33- 

in  the  service  I  am  Arthur  Corrinne,  and  while  you 
are  here  you  must  be  simply  Mr.  Corrinne,  my 
father." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  will  do  my  best  to  conceal  your 
folly  in  deserting  an  honorable  name.  I  have  been 
schooling  myself  ever  since  I  left  home.  I  think 
you  need  not  fear  any  lapse  of  caution  on  my  part, 
now  that  the  sudden  surprise  of  meeting  you  at  an 
unexpected  moment  is  past." 

"There  is  one  thing  more — which  I  did  not  men- 
tion when  I  wrote  to  you — I  enlisted  as  from  Potts- 
ville  and  you  must  give  that  as  your  residence.  Be 
careful  not  to  mention  Johnstown,  for  the  wonder  at 
what  became  of  those  letters  of  yours  is  not  yet  over. 
You  will  need  to  be  extremely  careful  of  your  words 
or  you  will  betray  me." 

Corrinne  was  readily  excused  from  duty  for  the 
term  of  his  father's  visit  and  they  kept  much  by 
themselves,  smoking  the  choice  cigars  the  doctor  had 
thoughtfully  provided,  talking  of  home  happenings 
which  interested  the  son,  and  talking  of  army  life, 
experiences  and  exploits  which  were  yet  more  inter- 
esting to  the  father.  During  the  evening  of  the 
second  day  of  his  visit  the  doctor  said : 

"I  have  observed  that  you  make  no  inquiry 
about  Canary — why?" 

"Havn'tl  asked  for  her?" 

"Are  you  not  afraid  she  is  married?" 


"Whether  she  is  already  a  matron  or  dies  a 
spinster  is  wholly  indifferent  to  me." 

"It  never  struck  me  till  this  instant,  but — does 
she  know  where  you  are  ?  Have  you  ever  corres- 
ponded with  her?" 

"Certainly  not!  Did  she  ever  intimate  that  she 
possessed  a  knowledge  of  my  whereabouts  ?" 

"No,  no ;  to  be  sure !  I  had  not  reflected  on  that. 
She  was  constantly  asking  if  we  had  heard  from 
you." 

"Very  friendly  of  her,  I'm  sure." 

"I  tell  you,  Compton — I  may  safely  call  you  by 
your  own  name  when  there's  no  one  else  around — 
if  you  only  knew  it,  you  are  a  lucky  boy!  Canary 
is  a  sweet  girl,  and  a  good  girl  as  well  as  a  very  rich 
one,  and  she  is  ready  to  marry  you  whenever  you 
will." 

"1  shall  never  will  to  marry  her." 

"You  could  not  do  better  when  it's  time  to  marry; 
for  of  course  you  are  many  years  too  young  to  think 
of  matrimony  as  an  immediate  affair;  but  I  would 
like  to  see  you  engaged  to  Canary  and  then  the  mat- 
ter could  rest,  ad  lib" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  quite  agree  with  you.  I 
am  nearly  nineteen ;  you  were  but  little  older  when 
you  married.  However,  I  certainly  never  will  be 
either  married  or  engaged  to  Miss  Bird.  Would 
you  consent  to  my  immediate  marriage  to  her?" 


35- 


"No.  I  would  consent  to  an  engagement  quite 
happily ;  but  not  to  marriage  for  four  or  five  years 
yet;  though  in  a  little  more  than  two  years  you  can 
marry  without  my  consent." 


JM? 


g^iflpfeii  ar: 


..I 


CI  I A  ITER    V 


©reparing  a  Jfappij  §urp'ri^>e. 


FTER  that  conversation  Corrinne  deter- 
mined to  keep  silent  regarding  his 
marriage,  and  let  matters  drift  and 
develop  themselves ;  and  he  found  it 
an  easy  matter  to  keep  it  from  his 
father's  knowledge,  as  none  of  his  com- 
rades became  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  doctor  to 
revert  to  it. 

The  next  day  application  was  made  for  a  thirty- 
days'  furlough  for  Corrinne,  and  the  commission  of 
absence  was  received  on  the  following  Saturday. 
They  could  not  start  north  till  Sunday  afternoon, 
however,  and  on  Sunday  morning  the  doctor  said  : 
"  Now,  Compton,  my  boy,  say  farewell  to  all  your 
comrades,  for  I  do  not  intend  that  you  shall  return 
to  the  Twenty-eighth.  I've  managed  it  already  and 
have  prepared  a  surprise  for  you.     Look  at  this." 

The  son  took  the  large  parchment  extended  by 
the  father,  and  with  equal  amazement,  pride  and 
pleasure,  read  its  contents. 


—40— 

It  commissioned  Compton  Hastings  a  second 
lieutenant  in  the  Twenty-first  Pennsylvania  volun- 
teer cavalry. 

"Where?     How  did  you  get  this?" 

"I  obtained  it  from  Governor  Curtin  as  I  came 
down." 

"Did  you  tell  him  where  I  was  ?" 

"No;  I  told  him  I  was  trying  to  find  you,  and 
wanted  to  be  prepared  with  a  commission  when  I 
found  you." 

"  Then  say  nothing  to  him  about  my  enlistment 
here;  say  nothing  here  about  my  promotion;  I  will 
leave  this  on  furlough  as  Arthur  Corrinne  and  never 
report  b}r  that  name,  either  for  duty  or  discharge. 
I  will  go  home  with  you  for  a  visit  to  mother,  then 
report  for  duty  in  the  Twenty-first ;  Corrine  will  be 
reported  a  deserter.     Let  that  end  him." 

"Just  as  you  please,  Comp.;  I  confess  that  I  feel 
some  humiliation  in  your  abandonment  of  my 
name ;  but  of  course  no  one  will  ever  suspect  an 
identity  between  Lieutenant  Hastings  and  Private 
Corrinne.  Now,  if  you  could  only  grow  a  beard, 
Lieutenant !" 

"Well,  I  can't,  father;  but  I'll  endeavor  to  be  as 
much  a  man  as  though  I  were  covered  with  hair," 
the  youth  responded,  not  a  little  proud  of  his  title, 
thus  used  for  the  first  time. 


-41— 

Corrinne  then  spent  a  long  time  in  writing,  and 
finally  called  Harry  Lowman,  one  of  his  comrades, 
into  the  tent  occupied  by  his  father  and  himself, 
through  the  kindness  of  Captain  Copeland,  and  said 
to  him  : 

"Harry,  I'm  going  to  go  home  and  visit  my 
mother  for  a  week ;  then  I  shall  return  to  Harper's 
Ferry  and  remain  till  my  furlough  expires.  I  want 
to  frighten  my  wife  just  for  the  fun  I'll  have  when 
I  get  there.  I  have  here  a  half  finished  letter  to 
her,  dated  next  Saturday,  and  another  dated  next 
Sunday,  which  I  want  you  to  copy  and  send  in  your 
own  name,  enclosing  the  first." 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  copy  ?" 

"  Only  a  letter,  telling  Eliza  that  while  on  picket 
duty  I  was  shot  and  killed  the  night  before." 

"  What's  that  for  ?  It's  nonsense,  and  it  is  cruel." 

"Don't  you  understand?  I  want  her  to  get 
them  just  a  day  or  two  before  I  get  to  Harper's 
Ferry  myself.  She  will  be  all  the  happier  for  it 
when  she  finds  out  what  a  hoax  it  was.  I  have  put 
up  all  my  old  letters  from  her,  with  my  rings,  her 
photograph  and  my  diary,  ready  for  the  mail,  and 
you  can  address  them  and  post  them  with  the  let- 
ters." 

Lowman  consented  and  received  the  letters  and 
the  package. 


CHAPTER   VI 


.mftiCion    anc|    Romance, 


Officii*  RTHUR  Corrinne  was  one  of  those 
neutral  characters  who  might  become 
very  good  or  very  bad;  who  might  be 
very  weak  or  very  strong.  In  fact,  he 
was  all  of  them  by  turns.  His  every 
action  was  in  obedience  to  the  impulse 
of  the  instant. 

His  flight  from  home  was  an  impulse;  his 
assumption  of  an  alias  was  an  impulse;  his  mar- 
riage was  the  hasty  result  of  a  boyish  thought ;  his 
determination  to  consign  the  name  of  Corrinne  to 
dishonor  as  the  name  of  a  deserter  when  an  honor- 
able discharge  for  promotion  needed  only  to  be 
asked  for  to  be  obtained  was  an  impulse.  Thus, 
too,  under  the  spur  of  impulse,  an  impulse  obeyed 
and  gratified  without  a  thought  of  its  torturing 
wickedness,  he  quietly  afflicted  his  wife  by  a  cruel 
and  deliberate  lie — with  no  design  beyond  seeing 
what  she  would  say  when  she  learned  that  he  was 
living  and  uninjured. 


-46- 

The  day  wore  away,  and  late  in  the  afternoon  the 
train  by  which  the  father  and  son  were  to  depart 
came  rumbling  to  the  station.  Corrinne  looked 
about  the  place  and  gazed  at  the  camp  on  the  hill- 
side with  a  half  glad,  half  regretful  glance,  before 
he  entered  the  car.  As  the  train  passed  around  the 
curve  and  the  last  glimpse  of  the  camp  was  closed 
he  said : 

"Farewell,  boys !  Adieu,  dear  comrades!  And 
Corrinne,  farewell!  You  were  not  born,  you  did 
not  die  ;  yet  you  were  and  now  you  are  not !  You 
have  departed  from  life;  you  have  passed  out  of 
existence  save  as  a  memory  !  Now,  father,  you  are 
Doctor  Hastings,  of  Johnstown,  and  I  am  Compton 
Hastings — to  be  Lieutenant  Hastings  as  soon  as  I 
can  be  mustered." 

Proceeding  to  Harrisburg,  where  the  Twenty- 
first  Cavalry  was  being  organized,  Compton  wTas 
mustered  as  Second  Lieutenant,  and  thence,  on 
leave,  went  to  Johnstown  with  his  father. 

As  he  had  indicated  to  Lowman  at  Rectortown, 
his  intention  was,  originally,  to  pass  a  week  only  at 
his  father's,  then  join  his  wife,  inform  her  fully  as 
to  his  name,  promotion  and  prospects,  and,  when  his 
leave  expired,  report  to  his  new  command  for  duty. 

But  his  fickleness  led  him  to  adopt  a  different 
course.  Reflecting  that  Eliza  now  thought  him 
dead,  and  imagining  with  pride  how  amazed  she 
would  be  to  see  him  in  shoulder  straps,  his  ambition 


—47— 

suggested  that  he  wait  till  he  became  a  captain  before 
he  reveal  himself.  He  thought  further,  what  a  grand 
romantic  achievement  it  would  be  to  allow  his  wife 
to  mourn  for  him  as  for  the  dead,  while  he  went  to 
the  field,  conquered  promotion,  won  laurels  and 
ascended  to  the  zenith  of  fame:  to  then  return  to 
her  and  astound  her  by  his  greatness;  reveal  him- 
self as  the  gallant  and  renowned  General  Hastings, 
whose  mighty  victories  had  shaken  the  continent 
and  attracted  the  admiration  of  the  world,  and 
whose  identity  she  would  never  suspect  till  he  had 
her  escorted  to  his  presence  by  a  guard  of  honor 
detailed  from  his  staff. 

The  charm  of  such  a  prospect  overcame  his 
judgment,  subjugated  his  manhood,  and  his  love 
was  submerged  in  the  deluge  of  his  ambitious 
dreams.  He  yielded  to  the  phantasy,  relegated  his 
wife  to  her  grief,  and  passed  his  time  happily  at 
home  till  his  leave  expired. 


*^S^» 


CHAPTER  VII. 


eJ\    §peef7e   of   "tao^e. 


8  AN  officer  Compton  Hastings  found 
himself  very  popular  with  his  subor- 
dinates, his  brother  officers  and  his 
superiors  in  rank.  His  extreme  youth, 
high  spirits  and  companionable  quali- 
ties won  friends  for  him  in  all  circles 
—friends  whose  place  gave  power  to  advance  him, 
and  he  was  placed  on  staff  duty  in  a  very  short 
time  after  joining  his  command.  Promotion  suc- 
ceeded rapidly,  and  in  less  than  a  year  he  had  been 
made  a  Major,  and,  by  what  some  would  regard  as 
an  odd  command  of  chance,  he  was  sent  to  Potts- 
ville  to  relieve  the  commandant  of  the  military 
there  in  the  service  of.  the  Provost  Marshal's  depart- 
ment. 

At  Pottsville  he  be c a m e  a  society  lion — a s 
officers  did  during  the  war  whenever  and  where- 
ever  stationed  in  the  loval  states.     While  there  he 


—  52— 

was  visited  by  his  father  and  mother,  accompanied 
by  Miss  Canary  Bird,  the  sweetheart  of  his  child- 
hood, the  girl  friend  of  his  early  youth,  now  two 
years  orphaned. 

They  found  him  still  their  "Comp.,"  yet  not  the 
same  that  they  would  have  had  him,  though  they 
could  not  have  explained,  even  to  each  other,  any 
particular  in  which  they  found  him  changed. 

The  fact  was  that  he  was  the  victim  of  his  own 
popularity.  The  adulation,  the  ceaseless  homage 
of  flattering  deference  which  he  received,  had"  com- 
pletely turned  his  head. 

He  occasionally  thought  of  Eliza  now,  and  he 
held  her  memory  very  dear,  it  is  true.  That  he 
loved  her  was  a  fact;  that  he  should  always  love 
her  he  felt  assured;  but  he  had  no  intention, 
now,  of  ever  returning  to  her.  Without  consult- 
ing authorities  he  had  convinced  himself  that  their 
marriage  was  illegal,  for  the  reason  that  he  had 
been  married  under  an  alias,  and  he  had  come  to 
regard  that  marriage  as  a  reckless  act  which  had 
much  better  be  left  in  its  present  oblivion.  It  was 
void,  he  thought,  and  consoled  his  conscience  by 
the  reflection  that  it  had  really  not  wronged  Eliza. 
She  did  not  know  that  she  had  not  been  a  lawful 
wife;  she  now  believed  herself,  and  all  those  who 
knew  her  history  believed  her  to  be,  the  widow  of  a 
lawful  marriage;  her  good  name,  her  peace  of  mind, 
and  her  untarnished  conscience  were  equally  assured 


—  53— 

against  disturbance,  and  undoubtedly  she  had  been 
all  the  happier  for  the  delusive  thought  that  she 
had  been  his  wife. 

Yes,  he  loved  her;  but  all  things  had  conspired 
to  bury  that  love,  and  it  was  covered  over  with  the 
beautiful  flowers  of  sweet  recollection  and  it  was  to 
be  forever  buried  as  a  part  of  the  dead  past. 

Thus  reasoning,  he  readily  concluded  that  he 
was  at  liberty  to  marry  again — no,  he  would  not 
say  "to  marry  again,"  but  "to  marry,"  and  it  would 
be  expedient,  therefore  wise,  to  gratify  his  parents 
by  wedding  the  lady  of  their  choice.  Canary  loved 
him ;  he  was  very  fond  of  her  indeed ;  she  was  "a 
good  match"  in  every  respect,  and  his  marriage  to 
her  would  add  to  the  glamour  of  his  celebrity. 

So  in  the  fall  of  1863  Major  Hastings  and  Miss 
Canary  Bird,  the  Johnstown  heiress,  were  married 
at  Pottsville,  and  the  town  was  stirred  by  the  event, 
for  in  all  its  history  it  had  never  before  witnessed 
such  superb  nuptials.  The  wedding  ceremony  and 
festivities  were  magnificent,  and  under  glowing- 
headlines  the  local  press  described  the  affair  in 
columns  of  gushing  phrases. 

Canary  carried  the  dignity  of  her  position  as 
the  wife  of  Major  Hastings  with  becoming  grace, 
and  as  his  easily  movable  affections  readily  en- 
shrined her  in  his  heart,  she  readily  found  in  him 


—54— 

a  husband  amply  devoted,  and  she  had  no  suspicion 
that  in  his  soal  she  did  not  cultivate  a  virgin  soil 
of  love. 

Yet  to  him  there  remained,  after  all,  and  despite 
his  wish,  that  flower-strewn  memory  of  Eliza — a 
spectre  of  love. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


c|ing£>    of    Gfiza. 


yURING  the  first  week  of  his  marriage, 
the  Major  was  visited  by  Captain  Par- 
dee, of  the  Twenty-eighth,  whom  he 
recognized  instantly.  The  Captain 
spent  three  or  four  days  at  Pottsville, 
and  was  daily  a  visitor  at  the  Major's 
quarters.  One  day,  while  the  two  were 
idly  smoking  together,  the  visitor  asked  : 

"Major,  have  you  any  relatives  named  Corrinne?" 
Fear  of  recognition  set  his  heart  into  very  active 
motion,  but  his  face   and   voice   were   calm  as  he 
replied  : 

"Not  within  my  knowledge.     Why  ?" 
"Oh,  I  thought  that  you  might  be  related — on 
your   mother's   side   of  the    family,    perhaps — to  a 
young  fellow  of  that  name  I  once  knew." 
"Indeed  !     What  occasioned  the  surmise?'' 

"Mutual  resemblance.    You  could  not  look  more 
alike  if  you  were  twins — you  and  Corrinne." 


—58- 

"Whoishe?" 

"He  was  a  private  in  company  F  of  our  regi- 
ment'.    I  do  not  know  where  or  what  he  is  now." 

"Discharged  ?     Captured?" 

"Deserted !"     . 

"Humph  !     I  am  glad  I  am  not  his  kinsman." 

"He  was  very  young  and  perhaps  not  so  greatly 
to  blame.  After  all,  it  is  hardly  fair  to  say  unqual- 
ifiedly that  he  deserted.  He  left  on  a  furlough,  and 
never  returned  or  reported.  The  evidence,  however, 
was  much  against  him.  His  father  visited  him 
while  the  regiment  lay  at  Rectortown,  Virginia, 
and  when  he  procured  his  furlough  they  left  camp 
together,  and  both  disappeared — not  a  trace  of 
either  has  ever  been  discovered." 

"That  was  singular — that  both  completely  dis- 
appeared— I  understand  you  correctly,  do  I  not?" 

"Yes:  both  vanished,  instantly  and  totally." 
"They  may  have  been  captured  or  killed  together. 
That  a  private  should  desert  is  not  a  matter  of  won- 
der, but  that  a  civilian  should  disappear  with  him 
is  incomprehensible  if  it  is  simply  a  desertion.  Under 
the  circumstances,  I  should  surely  hesitate  to  blight 
the  man's  memory." 

"Of  course  it  is  an  open  question ;  but  I  think 
there  can  be  but  little  doubt  as  to  the  soldier's  in- 
tention. He  had  hastily  married  when  the  command 
was  at  Harper's  Ferry,  and  of  course  his  wife  was 


—59- 

left  there.  On  the  morning  he  left  camp  he  got  a 
comrade  to  write  to  her,  telling  her  that  he  had 
been  shot,  and  sending  to  her  all  his  letters  and 
personal  trinkets.  I  am  satisfied  from  that  that  he- 
intended  tQ  desert — not  only  the  service,  but  his 
wife  as  well." 

"Poor  soul !  Then  she  supposes  herself  to  be  a 
widow,  whether  she  is  or  not." 

" Doubtless  she  did  at  first ;  but  when  Corrinne 
failed  to  report  at  the  expiration  of  his  furlough,  he 
was  looked  for,  of  course — equally  of  course  he  was 
looked  for  where  his  wife  was,  and  thus  she  learned 
the  facts  in  the  case  as  they  really  existed." 

"How  did  she  receive  it  ?" 

"From  grief  in  his  death  she  flew  into  a  wild, 
revengeful  despair  at  his  baseness."  • 

"Poor  creature  ;  she  was  to  be  pitied  !" 

"Yes,  certainly  ;  but  life  is  full  of  woe  and  bitter- 
ness, despair  and  lamentation,  as  it  ever  will  be,  for 
the  earth  is  trodden  solid  by  the  feet  of  heartless 
villains  and  scoundrels  without  conscience.'' 


CHAPTER  IX. 


(©Rooming   a   flame. 


IFE  passed  very  pleasantly  for  Major 
Hastings  and  his  wife,  and  no  change 
transpired  till  the  January  following 
their  marriage,  when  he  was  transferred 
to  Harrisburg,  where  he  was  kept  on 
duty  until  the  fall  of  18(35.  But  he 
failed  to  secure  further  promotion. 
During  the  first  year,  of  their  marriage,  Canary 
bore  him  a  daughter,  whom  he  obstinately  named 
Eliza,  in  opposition  to  the  desire  of  both  his  wife 
and  his  parents,  who  objected  that  the  name  was  too 
common,  and  that  neither  the  family  of  the  Major 
or  that  of  his  wife  had  an  Eliza  among  their  relatives 
or  intimate  friends.  He  declared  that  his  preference 
for  that  name,  was  a  mere  whim  for  which  no 
reason  could  be  given  ;  but  he  refused  to  yield  even 
to  their  suggestions  for  an  additional  or  copulative 
name,  whether  as  affix  or  suffix,  and  the  child  was 
therefore  christened  Eliza. 


-64- 

The  name  was  a  silent,  unacknowledged  tribute 
to  that  flower-covered  memory  of  love. 

When  mustered  out  of  service  the  Major  returned 
to  Johnstown  and  settled  down  to  business.  He  de- 
vote d  himself  closely  to  his  family  and  attended 
assiduously  to  his  investments,  and  prospered 
beyond  the  average.  The  ramifications  of  his 
commercial  affairs  were  extensive  and  reached  into 
many  states.  Although  he  availed  himself  of  the 
services  of  agents,  as  much  as  possible,  in  order  to 
be  with  his  wife  and  child,  he  yet  had  to  make  long 
and  frequent  journeys  to  properly  direct  his  enter- 
prises. 


CHAPTER    X. 


(5oc|   fe?e&&    me!    Eefiza! 


2s?§L 


<?K 


^dM^M  HILE  at  Hagarstown,  whither  he  had 
la    gone  one  clay,  expecting  to  return  the 
|  next,  the  Major  received  such  intelli- 
gence as  necessitated  a  personal  visit 
to  Baltimore,  and,  telegraphing  the 
5?       fact  to  Canary,  he  started  at  once  for 
that  city,   going  by  the  Hagarstown 
branch  of  the  Baltimore  and  Ohio  Railway. 

The  junction  of  this  branch  with  the  main  line 
is  at  Weverton,  two  miles  below  Harper's  Ferry.  At 
Weverton  there  is  a  lunch  room  and  dining  hall 
attached  to  the  station  establishment,  and  as  some 
of  the  corporation  officials  were  at  that  time  in- 
terested in  the  profits  derived  from  the  refreshment 
department,  all  passenger  trains  were  delayed  there 
to  permit  passengers  to  patronize  it. 

The  train  by  which  the  Major  reached  Weverton 
arrived  at  high  twelve,  and  as  the  train  by  which  he 
desired  to  proceed  pulled  out  at  3:05  p.  m.,  he  found 
himself  in  a  dull  place,   with   more  time  to  spare 


—68— 

than  he  knew  how  to  employ.  He  examined  the 
schedule,  hoping  that  he  might  be  able  to  go  up  to 
Harper's  Ferry  on  the  westward  train  and  have  an 
hour  or  so  there  before  the  eastward  train  arrived ; 
but  he  was  disappointed,  as  the  former  train  left 
We  vert  on  at  2:58.  He  looked  at  his  watch  and 
debated  within  his  mind  whether  he  should  lounge 
about  the  station,  climb  the  hills,  or  walk  to  Sandy 
Hook  and  Harper's  Ferry.  Only  half  deciding  not 
to  go  to  the  scene  of  that  love  which  now  lay 
entombed  in  a  coffin  of  fragrant  memory  blossoms, 
he  entered  the  lunch  room  and  seated  himself  at  a 
table  remote  from  other  guests,  and  ordered  a  roll 
and  a  cup  of  coffee.  When  the  coffee  arrived  he 
found  it  too  hot  for  immediate  use — oh,  rare  occur- 
rence at  railway  lunch  rooms  ;  but  perhaps  the  cooks 
should  Hot  be  censured,  for  business  was  just  then 
too  slack  to  keep  them  fully  awake. 

He  dallied  with  his  cup  and  spoon,  and  fell  to 
wondering  about  Eliza,  questioning  himself  : 

"Is  she  yet  living?  Has  she  ever  obtained  a 
divorce  from  Corrinne  ?  What  does  she  think  of 
him  now  ?  Is  she  married  ?  If  not,  does  she  intend 
to  marry?  Can  I  not  yet  walk  up  to  Harper's  Ferry 
and  learn  something  about  her?  If  she  still  lives 
there,  poor  dear,  she  is  at  this  moment  only  two 
miles  from  me  !  God  bless  her !  God  bless  her  !  I 
wonder  what  she  would  think  and  feel  if  she  knew 
that  I  am  so  near  ?     Does  she  think  of  me  as  often 


-6g- 

and  as  tenderly  as  I  think  of  her  ?  I  hope  she  does 
— no,  I  do  not  hope  so,  for  it  would  disturb  her 
peace  of  mind ;  yet  I  would  like  to  know  that  she 
does !  Would  I  know  her  ?  Certainly  !  But  would 
she  know  me  ?     Would ?" 

"Arthur  Corrinne!" 

"God  bless  me  !  Eliza  ! !" 

She  had  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  with  a 
convulsive  grasp  before  he  knew  that  anyone  had 
approached  him,  so  deeply  was  he  absorbed  in 
thoughts  of  her. 

"Why  are  you  here  ?  Are  you  coming  back  to 
me — and  to  your  child  ?" 

"To  my — to  you  and  my  child!  I  did  not 
know " 

'"AVhere  are  you  going  now?  To  Harper's 
Ferry?     To  us?" 

"I  did  not  know  that  there  was  a  child — you 
never  told  me !     Come,  let  us  walk  outside." 

They  went  out  and  walked  up  the  track  of  the 
branch  line,  away  from  the  stragglers  and  loungers 
— away  by  themselves,  apart  from  all  others,  as  they 
used  to  stroll  together  when  their  hearts  had  not  yet 
been  chilled  even  by  the  shadow  of  a  sorrow. 

"No,  I  never  told  you — because  you  abandoned 
me — and  deserted  your  babe  before  it  was  born." 

"I  did  not  know  it — did  not  guess  it — did  not 
suspect  it,  God  knows  !" 


—70— 

"You  should  have  known — I  wrote  to  you  that  I 
had  glad  words  which  could  not  be  written,  and 
begged  and  besought  you  to  come  to  me  and  hear 
them — glad  words  which  I  reserved  to  tell  you  when 
you  should  come  back  to  me — the  happiest  tidings 
I  could  ever  have  for  you ;  was  not  that  enough  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand  now ;  but  then — I  was 
too  young !  and  I  did  not  guess  !  God  forgive  us  ; 
I  did  not  understand  !" 

He  felt  a  terrible  weight  of  grief  upon  him  ;  and 
a  terrible  woe  within ;  yet  he  tried  to  shift  a  portion 
of  it  from  himself,  and  where  a  stronger  man  would 
have  acknowledged  the  fault  to  be  all  his  own,  he 
said  "God  forgive  us."  But  Eliza  did  not  analyze 
thus  ;  she  saw  the  regret  that  he  felt,  and  only  that, 
and  her  own  heart  found  expression  in  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  and  her  soul  rung  in  her  words  : 

"Oh,  Arthur,  where  have  you  been  all  these 
years?  How  sure  I  was  that  you  would  come  back 
to  me  in  the  very  hour  you  were  safe  from  arrest 
for  desertion,  when  the  war  was  over — the  war 
which  I  blessed  for  giving  you  to  me,  and  which  I 
cursed  in  my  very  prayers  for  taking  you  from  me ! 
And  how  that  trust  lived  even  when  no  reason  for 
hope  existed  any  more.  AYhy  did  you  so  cruelly 
deceive  and  desert  me?  But  you  have  <?ome  back 
to  me?  Tell  me,  love,  that  you  have?  Oh,  Arthur, 
I  am  so  desolate  !•" 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  Cumberland/' 


He  lied  to  her,  to  prevent  her  from  suspecting 
his  actual  course.  He  regretted  that  his  surprise 
had  betrayed  him  into  utfering  her  name  and 
thereby  acknowledging  his  own  identity,  instead  of 
boldly  denying  her,  proclaiming  his  own  name,  and 
asserting  that  she  mistook  him  for  some  one  whom 
he  resembled — in  reality  or  in  her  fancy. 

At  sight  of  her  face,  at  the  sound  of  her  saddened, 
sweet  voice,  all  his  love  for  her  was  resurrected  from 
that  flower-strewn  tomb  where  it  lay  enshrined  in 
his  memory.  Yet  he  realized  that  he  must  not  be 
doubly  false.  By  some  means  he  must  escape  from 
her — and  from  his  own  desire  to  cling  to  her !  She 
stood  before  him  now  with  the  veil  of  sadness 
dropped  over  her  beauty,  yet  more  lovely,  he 
thought,  in  her  mute  agony,  than  ever  before ! 

"Surely,  Eliza,  you  do  not  desire  my  return  after 
all  that  has  been  ;  after  all  the  woe  you  have  en- 
dured, and  all  the  sorrow  you  have  suffered  through 
me?" 

"Arthur!  God  knows,  Arthur!  When  1  first 
knew  that  you  had  deliberately  deserted  me,  I  could 
have  killed  you — might  have  killed  you,  had  I  found 
you  !  I  went  to  Pottsville  to  look  for  you,  and  found 
that  you  had  lied  to  me  even  about  your  home,  for 
you  had  never  lived  there — there  had  never  been  a 
Cor  r  inn  e  known  even  in  the  county!  Then  I 
realized  how  base  you  had  been — you,  in  whom 
my  love  was  fixed,  my  hope  centered,  my  life  an- 


—72— 

chored — whom  I  loved  more  than  I  loved  my  soul 
— you,  my  ideal  of  worth  and  manhood ;  you  whom 
I  thought  the  peer  of  the  noblest  arch-angel — you, 
my  stay,  my  deity  !  I  found  my  idol  crushed  by 
your  own  hand ;  you  became  the  iconoclast  who 
shattered  my  god  !  Oh,  crushing  loss !  Yes,  then 
I  wanted  to  kill  you,  for  you  had  wrested  from  me 
my  object  of  worship.  I  wanted  to  kill  you,  but  I 
could  not  find  you,  and  I  tried  to  kill  myself;  but 
even  that  relief  was  denied  me.  Time  passed  and 
our  baby  came,  and  I  found  that,  basely,  terribly, 
bitterly  as  you  had  wrecked  my  life,  I  still  loved 
you  as  deeply,  fervently  and  ineffaceably  as  ever. 
I  wanted  you — I  want  only  you  !  Oh,  Arthur  !  You 
will  not  deny  me?  I  care  nothing  for  the  past 
misery  ;  I  care  not  what  you  may  be — I  love  you 
in  spite  of  all !  I  will  not  ask  you  whether  you 
are  an  honorable  man,  or  what  your  station  in  life 
or  position  among  men  is— you  are  my  husband; 
I  want  nothing  save  you  !" 

"It  is  impossible." 

"No,  no,  no;  you  shall  not  say  that!  You  shall 
come  to  me — you  have  come  to  me,  and  I  will  never 
let  you  go  from  me  again.  I  will  go  with  you  and 
you  shall  not  escape  me!" 

"Eliza,  be  reasonable!  It  is  impossible  —  our 
marriage  was  illegal ;  why  it  was  so  I  dare  not  tell 
you,  but  it  was.  When  I  sent  you  that  notice  of 
my  death  I  did  so  thoughtlessly — expecting  to  see 


—73— 

you  within  a  few  days.  I  did  not  then  know  that 
we  were  not  lawfully  man  and  wife;  I  learned  that 
long  afterwards." 

"We  are  lawfully  married — but,  if  you  fear,  the 
ceremony  can  be  repeated." 

"Good  God,  Eliza!  cannot  you  understand  when 
I  say  that  it  is  impossible !" 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  do  not  wish  it,  and  will 
not  have  it?" 

"If  you  must  be  told  in  plain  words,  I  mean 
that  I  have  a  lawful  wife  away  in  the  north." 

"No,  no,  no,  no,  you  have  not!  I  am  your  law- 
ful wife !  That  other  is  your  victim  !  God  pity 
her !  You  are  my  husband,  and  you  shall  stay  with 
me ;  I  care  not  what  she  suffers,  I  have  suffered 
more!  I  say  you  shall  come  with  me  or  I  will 
seize  you  and  never  relax  my  hold  or  release  you 
while  I  live!  I  will  go  with  you — you  shall  not 
escape  my  sight !" 

"Where  were  you  going  now — when  you  saw 
me?" 

"Home;  you  will  come,  too,  Arthur;  oh,  my 
love,  my  life,  you  will  come?  You  will  come  and 
see  your  child — your  unhappy,  happy  little  daugh- 
ter?    You  will?" 

"Yes,  I  will  go  with  you — on  this  condition, 
solely — I  will  go  as  the  brother  of  your  husband, 
ignorant  of  your  husband's  whereabouts — and  we 


—74— 

can  thus  communicate  and  determine  as  to  the 
future." 

"I  will  assent  to  no  conditions — you  will  deceive 
and  elude  me." 

"No,  I  will  not:  1  will  go  on  no  other  terms.  If 
you  create  any  disturbance  I  will  declare  you  in- 
sane, and  those  who  know  your  history  will  credit 
the  declaration.  You  may  trust  me,  Eliza,  for  I 
wish  to  determine  what  is  best  I  love  you  as  much 
as  ever,  and  I  would  take  you  to  my  home  if  I 
could.  But  I  have  a  wife  to  whom  I  am  legally 
married  and  I  must  have  time  to  consider  every 
phase  of  this  matter." 

"Seeing  that  she  could  not  do  better,  Eliza  at 
length  assented  to  the  proposed  arrangement  and 
they  returned  to  the  station,  where  they  found  the 
westward  train  ready  to  pull  out.  They  entered 
the  car,  and  when  the  train  began  to  move  he  drew 
out  his  cigar  case  and  rose,  saying  that  he  would 
stand  on  the  platform  and  smoke  while  he  looked 
at  the  scenes  of  the  days  of  his  soldier-service. 
Eliza  clutched  his  arm  and  objected,  but  he  laughed 
at  her  fears,  thereby  allaying  them  in  so  far  that 
she  permitted  him  to  go  without  further  remon. 
st  ranee. 

As  he  reached  the  platform  the  eastward  train 
passed  them,  and,  while  Eliza  looked  out  at  it,  he 
leaped  off  and  ran  back  to  the  station,  arriving  in 


—75- 

time  to  board  the  train  by  which  he  had  at  first 
designed  to  go. 

Securing  a  berth  in  the  sleeper,  he  retired  at  an 
early  hour,  and  in  the  night  he  quietly  left  the  train 
at  a  small  station  where  water  was  taken.  He  found 
a  hotel  from  which  he  was  in  the  morning  driven 
to  a  small  village  fifteen  miles  from  the  railway, 
where,  under  an  alias,  he  remained  three  clays.  He 
then  returned  to  the  railway  and  proceeded  by  the 
night  train  to  Baltimore,  satisfied  that  if  pursuit 
had  been  made  he  had  now  safely  eluded  his  pur- 
suers. 

Having  concluded  his  business  in  Baltimore  he 
returned  home  by  way  of  Philadelphia,  Harrisburg 
and  Altoona. 


CHAPTEE  XL 


<J\  (^a?arq\{"\/. 


RESIDENT  Johnson  and  his  Cabinet 
were  r  e  t  u  r  n  i  n  g  from  an  extended 
northern  and  western  trip,  and  on  the 
14th  da)T  of  September,"  1866,  all 
Johnstown  went  to  the  depot  to  see 
the  head  of  the  Nation  and  the  heads 
of  the  National  bureaus. 

Mattie  Rosensteel  looked  in  at  Mrs.  Hastings's 
open  door  and  inquired  : 

"Will  you  go  now,  Mrs.  Hastings?     Shall  I  wait 
for  you?" 

"I  am  ready  now,"  Canary  answered,  and  they 
went  to  the  street  together. 

The  crowd  about  the  depot  was  large  and  dense. 
Across  a  lateral  railway  cut  twenty-live  feet  in  depth 
stretched  awooden  bridge  to  accommodate  travelers 
upon  an  intersecting  street,  at  the  eastern  end  of 
the  depot,  and,  as  the  depot  was  regarded  as  an 


— 8o— 

exceptionally  desirable  point  from  which  to  see  the 
celebrities,  it  was  compactly  filled  with  spectators  to 
the  number  of  eight  hundred  and  upward. 

Seeing  Doctor  Wagner  on  the  bridge,  Miss  Rosen- 
steel  appealed  to  him  : 

"Oh,  Doctor  Wagner,  please  get  us  a  good  place. 
I  never  saw  a  President  nor  a  hero  !" 

The  Doctor  did  his  best  and  soon  had  them 
placed  by  the  railing  of  the  bridge  near  its  cen- 
tre. The  train  pulled  up  almost  before  they  were 
settled  in  their  places,  and  as  the  cars  stopped  there 
were  loud  cheers  for  Johnson,  cheers  for  General 
Grant,  cheers  for  Stanton  and  for  Chase,  and  calls 
for  speeches.  The  great  men  acknowledged  the 
homage  of  the  people,  and  the  cries  for  a  speech  by 
General  Grant  becoming  so  imperative,  the  General 
stepped  upon  the  platform  of  the  car,  hat  in  hand 
as  if  about  to  comply.  The  calls  ceased,  there  was 
a  sudden  surge  of  the  crowd  upon  the  bridge,  and 
with  a  crackling  crash  the  structure  gave  way,  hurl- 
ing a  mass  of  mingled  humanity  and  broken  tim- 
bers into  the  chasm. 

Seven  persons  were  killed  and  three  hundred 
were  injured. 

Miss  Rosensteel  was  crippled  for  life — the  patella 
being  torn  entirely  from  the  right  knee. 


— 8i  — 

Doctor  Wagner's   right  arm  and    right  leg  were 
both  broken. 

Canary  was  dead  when  they  found  her.* 


KThls  chapter  is  historically  true. 


§ 


EM: 


CHARTER  XI 


lougRf  iJor,    Siuf    Rot"   ©Jounil. 


WO  years  later  Major  Hastings, 
troubled  about  his  youngest  daugh- 
ter, troubled  about  his  elder  and  yet 
unknown  daughter,  troubled  about 
the  abandoned  wife  of  his  youth — 
loved  yet,  as  ever — determined  to 
remedy  her  wrongs  in  so  far  as  the 
future  care  of  herself  and  her  child  could  do  so, 
went  to  Harper's  Ferry  to  offer  her  his  love  again, 
and  to  tender  to  her  the  asylum  of  his  home  and 
the  benefit  of  his  name. 

Sending  his  baggage  to  the  hotel,  he  walked  up 
Shenandoah  street  to  the  Virginia  residence,  directly 
from  the  station.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  been  so 
stirred  within  his  soul  as  he  was  in  that  short  walk. 
Hope,  love,  doubt,  fear,  anxiety  and  curiosity,  all  at 
times  and  each  by  turn,  possessed  him,  and  he  was 
in  a  state  of  bewilderment  when  he  was  confronted 


■S6- 


by  a  colored  servant  who  opened  the  door  in  re- 
sponse to  his  spasmodic  jerk  at  the  bell-pull.  It- 
was  some  time  before  he  could  recall  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  ask  : 

"Is  Mrs.  Corrinne  at  home  '.'" 

"She  doan'  live  heah!" 

"Is  Mrs.  Virginia  in  ?" 

"No,  sah  ;  doan'  know  any  Mrs.  Virginny  nur 
Mrs.  Corrinne;  nobody  ob  such  names  lib  heah  !" 

"Who  lives  here  now*/*' 

"Gen'al  Grow,  sah;  Missus  Grow  might  know 
dem  folks,  sah  ;  shall  I  ax  her?" 

"Will  you  hand  my  card  to  Mrs.  Grow?'" 

The  servant  ushered  him  into  a  reception  room 
and  disappeared  with  his  card.  In  a  few  minutes 
an  amiable  looking  lady  entered,  and  after  greeting 
him  hospitably,  said  : 

"You  are  looking  for  Mrs.  Virginia  and  her 
daughter*/      You  do  not  know  that  she  is  dead?" 

"Eliza  dead"/     Oh,  God  !     I  am  too  late!'* 

"I  crave  your  pardon,  sir;  1  am  sorry  to  distress 
you:  Mrs.  Corrinne  is  not  dead,  so  far  as  I  know; 
Mrs  Virginia,  her  mother,  is." 

•'Where  is  Mrs.  Corrinne?" 

"That  it  is  impossible  to  answer.  She  left  here 
more  than  a  year  ago,  upon  the  death  of  her 
mother,  and  as  she  has  no  kin  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, she  has  been  lost  sight  of  entirely.." 


-s7- 

"Did  she  take  her  child  with  her  ?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"I  thought  that  she  may  have  sent  the  girl  to 
some  school  through  which  she  might  then  be 
found.  Will  you  kindly  give  me  all  the  informa- 
tion you  possess  concerning  her?  I  do  not  wish  to 
trespass  upon  you,  however,  though  I  am  deeply 
anxious  in  this  matter.'' 

"No  one  knows  anything  about  her,  except  that 
she  went  to  Baltimore  immediately  after  selling  the 
family  estate;  but  she  did  not  remain  there  a  week ; 
where  she  went  from  there  is  not  known  to  any  one 
here." 

"Who,  in  Baltimore,  can  give  a  clue  to  her 
present  location  ?" 

"No  one,  I  think.  General  Grow  endeavored  to 
find  her,  disiring  information  as  to  a  portion  of  the 
Virginia  estate  which  he  had  purchased,  and  all 
that  he  could  learn  was  that  while  in  Baltimore 
she  stopped  at  the  Barnum,  and  from  thence  was 
driven  to  the  depot  at  an  hour  when  she  might 
have  departed  by  any  one  of  several  trains  run- 
ning to  the  north  and  the  west " 

The  Major's  heart  was  sore  and  depressed  ;  his 
disappointment  was  deep  and  bitter;  but  he  did 
not  yield  his  hope  a  captive  to  despair.  For  more 
than  a  year  he  employed  every  possible  means  to 
discover  Eliza  and  her  child,  but  all  his  efforts  were 
fruitless. 


-88- 


The  anxiety,  which  had  grown  to  be  very  heavy, 
affected  his  health,  and  as  his  little  Eliza's  health 
was  very  poor,  he  followed  the  advice  of  his  physi- 
cian— Doctor  Hastings  died  before  the  war  was  over 
-  -and  removed  to  Colorado,  where  he  found  relief 
for  his  mind  in  the  absorbing  pursuit  of  the  precious 
minerals,  and  where  both  himself  and  his  child  grew 
strong  again. 


<&-<>^^mwt=^<>-& 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


Isittfe    G-fiza    ^cli r^^    a   iJriencj. 


'(f?9fe5S>  N  1876,  Major  Hastings,  with    his  little 


show  was 


Eliza,  visited  the  Centennial  Exposition 
at  Philadelphia,  and  passed  several  weeks 
in  that  most  delightful  of  our  eastern 
cities. 

What  a  world  of  delight  the  great 
to  the  child!  Oh,  the  countless  wonders 
displayed  along  miles  and  miles  of  aisles  in  those 
vast  superstructures — visited  daily  for  weeks  and 
yet  not  all  known  ;  their  number  so  great  that  no 
human  memory  could  find  stowage  for  them.  In 
the  Art  Gallery  she  often  said  : 

"Oh,  papa,  don't  go  yet.  I  could  spend  a  long- 
lifetime  here  and  never  get  ready  to  say  good-bye 
to  these  beautiful  things." 

"We  had  better  go  now;  it  is  best,  always,   to 
depart  before  one  really  wishes  to  go,  because  return- 
so  much  the  greater  pleasure.      Even 


ing  is  then 


—92— 

the  delights  of  these  works  of  art  would  cloy  if  we 
made  up  our  minds  to  devote  all  our  time  to  them." 

"Then  let  us  go  to  the  Colorado  pavillion  and  see 
that  dear  old  Commodore  Decatur." 

The  child  was  an  enthusiastic  and  zealous  aide 
to  the  genial  and  frowsy  old  Commodore  from  Colo- 
rado, being  a  firm  advocate  of  the  superiority  of  the 
baby  state  over  all  her  elder  sisters  in  the  Federal 
family,  and  stoutly  maintained  that  its  productions 
were  the  finest,  its  fruits  the  most  luscious,  its  grains 
the  most  nourishing,  its  vegetables  the  choicest,  its 
scenery  the  most  charming,  its  climate  the  most  de- 
lightful— in  fact,  whatever  any  other  state  had  that 
was  desirable  she  claimed  for  Colorado  in  a  greater 
degree.  And  her  naive  manner  in  advertising  her 
favorite  state  attracted  no  little  attention  to  the  ob- 
ject of  her  pride. 

Every  day  she  guided  her  father  to  a  particular 
tent  for  lunch,  because  the}^  were  there  served  by  a 
bright-eyed,  fair-faced,  dark  haired  girl  of  thirteen 
or  fourteen  years,  with  whom  she  had  become  very 
friendly,  and  who,  sometimes,  when  she  could  be 
spared  long  enough  from  her  duties,  allowed  her- 
self to  be  persuaded  to  sit  with  them  and  take  a 
glass  of  the  claret  which  the  Major  invariably 
ordered  with  their  lunch. 

Occasionally  the  little  waitress,  who  was  called 
Emma  Coyne,  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  day's  leave, 


—93— 

when  she  would  accompany  her  stranger  friends  in 
their  wonder  wanderings. 

One  day,  at  the  Zoological  Gardens,  the  children 
gave  each  other  a  detailed,  though  not  uninter- 
rupted history,  of  their  respective  lives,  much  of 
which  the  Major  overheard  and  listened  to  with 
interest. 

Eliza  was  well  informed  as  to  the  animals  indig- 
enous to  Colorado,  and  fully  explained  the  pecu- 
liarities personal  to  the  coyote — with  a  stuffed  sam- 
ple before  her.  There  was  also  a  stuffed  mountain 
lion  which  drew  from  the  little  western  maiden 
many  narratives  of  depredations  by  that  terrible 
beast.  There  were  living  bears  of  three  species, 
native  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  together  with  buf- 
faloes, antelopes,  prairie  dogs,  jack-rabbits,  squirrels, 
grouse  and  other  fowls,  and  birds  from  mountain 
and  mesa.  The  favorites  of  the  little  friends  were 
the  prairie  dogs,  which  Eliza  pitied  because  they 
looked  so  homesick  and  altogether  unnatural  in 
their  far-away  home  of  detention. 

"How  I  should  like  to  go  to  Colorado,"  Emma 
said,  as  she  leaned  over  the  wire  lattice  fence,  tempt- 
ing a  hungry  looking  prairie  dog  with  a  green  twig- 
purloined  froin  an  adjacent  maple. 

"How  /  wish  you  could !"  Eliza  responded. 

"It  must  be  so  grand  !  The  great  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, and  Pike's  Peak,  and  the  gold  mines,  and  the 


—94- 

snow  all  summer,  and  the  prairies,  with  flowers,  and 
all  the  wild  animals  one  can  see!" 

She  enumerated  the  objects  of  interest  as  they 
occurred  in  her  thought,  unclassified,  but  Eliza  did 
not  notice  that  fact,  though  it  brought  a  smile  to 
the  lips  of  the  Major. 

"Indeed,  the  mountains  are  grand;  you  never 
saw  anything  like  them  !  They  appear  to  be  differ- 
ent every  time  you  look  at  them.  Sometimes  they 
seem  so  close  that  you  think  you  might  almost  hear 
the  miners  at  work,  and  then  in  an  hour  or  two 
they  will  seem  to  be  so  far  off  that  you  couldn't 
ride  to  them  in  a  whole  day." 

"I  never  saw  a  mountain  ;  nothing  but  the  big 
hills  up  the  Schuylkill." 

•'Big  hills!  Why.  Emma,  there's  not  a  big  hill 
in  Pennsylvania,  1  don't  believe,  only  the  Allegheny 
mountains.  What  you  call  big  hills  are  not  as  big 
as  the  little  hills  that  North  Denver  is  built  on,  and 
folks  don't  even  think  of  them  as  hills  at  all ;  they're 
just  called  the  Highlands,  or  the  Heights." 

"Oh,  I  would  so  love  to  go  out  there!" 

"Can't  you  coax  your  mamma  to  move  out 
there?" 

"We  couldn't!  It  takes  so  much  money  to  pay 
the  fare,  and  we  are  too  poor." 

"How  much  do  you  and  your  mamma  get  for  a 
month's  work?" 


—95— 

"I  get  two  dollars  a  week  here,  and  mamma  gets 
ten  dollars  a  month  where  she  is — we  couldn't  save 
money  enough,  ever." 

"Papa,  couldn't  they  get  more  than  ten  dollars  a 
month  in  Denver?" 

"Yes;  wages  lor  household  help  are  three  times 
that  in  Denver." 

"I  would  like  to  go,  if  only  we  could  ;  what  does 
it  cost,  Mr.  Hastings  ?" 

"The  fare  to  Denver  is  now  about  seventy-five 
dollars,  without  sleeper  or  meals  on  the  way." 

"That  would  take  two  hundred  dollars  just  to 
carry  mamma  and  me  to  Denver.  We  couldn't 
raise  so  much  if  we  should  sell  everything  we 
have  in  the  house." 

"How  long  has  your  father  been  dead  ?"  the 
Major  inquired. 

"Ever  so  long;  I  don't  even  know.  Mamma 
says  I  never  saw  him." 

"Poor  child  !"  murmured  the  Major,  thinking 
of  his  own  daughter,  who  had  never  seen  her 
father." 


— >3£gh-o^« 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


pfurec£>    ©aniei 


M 

EFORE  starting  on  his  return  to  the 
west  with  his  daughter,  the  two  little 
friends  easily  persuaded  the  Major  to 
permit  Eliza  to  pass  one  night  with 
Emma,  and  together  the)'  left  the 
Exposition  grounds  as  soon  as  Emma's 
duties  at  the  restaurant  were  ended  for  the  day. 

Mrs.  Coyne- and  her  daughter  lived  in  a  little 
two-roomed  brick  house  in  one  of  the  poorest 
quarters  of  the  city.  The  front  room  was  both 
parlor  and  chamber;  the  other,  both  kitchen  and 
dining  haJl.  The  furniture  was  simple  and  inex- 
pensive, but  quite  sufficient  for  their  unpretentious 
mode  of  life. 

Mrs.  Coyne  was  yet  a  young  woman,  but  with  a 
worn,  tired-out  look,  which  imparted  the  appearance 
of  age  and  suggested  a  life  of  grief.  She  received 
Eliza  with  a  kindly  interest,  having  heard  Emma 
talk  of  her  daily  since  their  acquaintance  began. 


—  IOO —     - 

"So  your  name  is  Eliza?"  she  said  in  the  even- 
ing. "That  is  my  name,  too;  were  you  named  after 
your  mother?" 

"Oh,  no,  mamma's  name  was  Canary;  she  is 
dead  now.  Papa  has  told  me,  when  I  asked  him? 
that  he  named  me  so  because  he  once  had  a  sweet- 
heart called  Eliza." 

"I  shouldn't  think  your  mother  would  have  liked 
that." 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  knew  about  the  sweet- 
heart ;  I'm  sure,  though,  that  papa  would  have  had 
me  named  anything  she  wished,  so  I  do  not  suppose 
she  objected." 

"How  funny  it  would  be  if  everybody  was  named 
after  their  mamma  or  papa !"  Emma  said. 

"If  they  were,"  Eliza  rejoined,  "you  would  never 
know  whom  one  was  talking  about. " 

"1  was  once  in  Clearfield  county  in  this  state," 
Mrs.  Coyne  said,  "and  found  a  community  very 
much  like  that.  Almost  the  whole  population  was 
made  up  of  the  Gosses  and  the  Kepharts,  and  I 
was  both  puzzled  and  amused  by  their  hereditary 
names.  Among  the  Kepharts  the  favorite  name 
was  Daniel,  and  their  Daniels  were  well  nigh  in- 
numerable. They  were  designated  as  Old  Dan,  Old 
Dan's  Dan,  Dan,  Dan's  Dan,  Young  Dan,  Young 
Dan's  Dan,  and  so  on  through  their  Andys,  Henrys, 
Jakes,  Johns,  Sams,  and  all  the  others,  every  one 


101 


having  a  son  Dan.  There  was  also  a  New  Dan. 
These  are  all  I  can  recall  now.  New  Dan  was  so 
called  because  he  was  a  new  comer  and  unrelated 
to  the  old  settlers.  The  Gosses  were  just  as  prolific 
of  Jakes  as  the  Kepharts  were  of  Dans."* 
"How  very  confusing  it  must  have  been  !" 
"It  is  the  same  now — 'tis  but  a  few  years  since  I 
was  there.  I  have  no  doubt  that  these  titles,  like 
those  of  the  European  nobility,  are  hereditary,  and 
that  when  Old  Dan  dies  Dan  becomes  Old  Dan,  and 
so  on. 

"Like  the  song  : — 

'Old  Sam  Simons 
And  Young  Sam  Simons, 

Old  Sam  Simons'   son 
Young  Sam  Simons 
Will  be  Sam  Simons 

When  Old  Sam  Simons  is  gone.'  " 

Eliza  sang  the  old  long  metre  tune  so  often  heard 
in  country  revival  meetings  to  the  hymn  beginning : 

"Come,  humble  sinner,  in  whose  breast — . " 

The  ridiculous  words  and  solemn  air  were  ren- 
dered in  such  a  comical  manner  that  Emma  was 
infinitely  amused,  and  a  sweet-toned  though  sad- 
dened laugh  fell  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Coyne,  who 
answered : 

"Very  much  that  way,  I  have  no  doubt." 
"But,  mamma,  wasn't  there  anybody  but  Kep- 
harts and  Gosses  lived  there?" 

*Faet!    If  you  doubt,  visit  Woodward  township,  Clearfield  county.  Perm. 


102- 


"Yery  few?  indeed.  The  Kepharts  and  the  Gosses 
were  inter-related  in  the  most  intricate  manner,  so 
that  when  a  young  man  went  courting  he  almost 
inevitably  made  love  to  a  member  of  his  own 
family." 

"How  absurd !" 

"Those  names  were  so  common  to  the  populace 
that  one  of  the  oddest  court  trials  I  ever  heard  of 
resulted  from  them." 

"Tell  us  about  that,  please?" 

"A  man  named  Harve}^  Moore  moved  into  the 
township  shortly  before  I  visited  the  place  myself. 
He  proved  to  be  not  only  a  very  bad  man,  but  ah 
extremely  disagreeable  and  quarrelsome  neighbor. 
At  last  a  township  meeting  was  called  and  he  was 
soundly  berated  and  a  resolution  was  adopted  say- 
ing:  'He  has  slandered  the  majority  of  his  neigh- 
bors and  it  is  the  hope  of  the  good  people  of  this 
vicinity  that  he  will  depart  from  among  us  and 
return  no  more  until  he  becomes  an  honest  and  a 
truth-telling  man.'  There  were  other  resolutions 
and  a  long  preamble,  all  of  which  it  was  made  the 
duty  of  a  minister  living  in  the  adjoining  township 
to  have  published  in  the  county  paper.  What  is 
now  called  Clearfield  was  then  called  Oldtown,  the 
county  seat.  A  newspaper  published  there,  called 
The  Raftsman's  Journal,  was  selected  by  the  min- 
ister, Rev.  Cyrus  Jeffries,  as  the  medium  of  publica- 
tion, and  to  that  paper  he  sent  an  account  of  the 


—  103— 

meeting  and  a  copy  of  the  preamble  and  resolutions. 
Mr.  Moore  prosecuted  Mr.  Jeffries  for  libel.  Senator 
Wallace,  who  then  practiced  law  at  Oldtown , 
appeared  as  Mr.  Moore's  attorney,  and  Bucher 
Swope,  also  an  Oldtown  attorney,  appeared  for 
Mr.  Jeffries,  as  did  also  Ex-Governor  Bigler.  The 
suit  attracted  people  from  all  parts  of  the  country 
and  even  from  Jefferson,  Cambria  Centre  and  Blair 
counties,  for  Mr.  Jeffries  was  well  known  almost 
all  over  the  state  and  the  odd  features  of  the  con- 
troversy were  in  themselves  interesting.  When  the 
defense  was  reached  Mr.  Jeffries  proved,  first,  that 
Mr.  Moore  had  repeatedly  said  :  'The  Kepharts  all 
make  their  living  by  stealing  shingle  timber  and 
the  Gosses  all  make  their  living  by  stealing  shin- 
gles. To  be  a  Goss  or  a  Kephart  is  to  be  a  timber 
thief  by  birth.'  Then  he  proved  that  the  Kepharts 
and  the  Gosses  were  'a  great  majority  of  his  neigh- 
bors.' The  tax  rolls  and  the  poll  books  of  the  town- 
ship were  submitted  as  evidence,  and  without 
leaving  their  box  the  jury  found  a  verdict  for  the 
preacher.  He  was  acquitted  and  Mr.  Moore  had  to 
pay  several  hundred  dollars  costs." : 

"What  became  of  Mr.  Moore?'1 

"I  believe  that  he  still  dwells  among  'the  great 
majority  of  his  neighbors,'  the  Kepharts  and  the 
Gosses." 

"Did  you  live  there  when  you  were  a  girl, 
mamma  ?" 

*This  trial  is  no  fiction.    All  the  names  and  incidents  given  are  correct. 


— 104 — 

"No,  dear,  I  was  there  only  for  a  short  time, 
while  you  were  very  little." 

"Where  did  you  live  when  you  were  a  girl?" 
Eliza  asked. 

"In  Virginia." 

"Is  that  a  nice  country?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Its  scenery  is  grand,  its  climate 
is  pleasant,  its  people  both  refined  and  hospitable." 

"What  made  you  leave  there?" 

"I  grew  so  lonely  and  became  so  weary  of  quiet 
idleness.  Shortly  after  I  lost  Emma's  papa  my 
mother  died  and  I  had  no  relative  on  earth  but  my 
baby ;  so  I  sold  the  estate  and  wandered  about  from 
city  to  village,  from  village  to  country,  all  over 
Maryland,  Pennsylvania,  New  Jersey  and  New 
York,  till  the  agent  into  whose  hands  I  had  given 
the  management  of  m}7  money  absconded,  reducing 
me  to  absolute  destitution.  I  chanced  to  be  then  in 
Philadelphia  and  so  remained  here." 

"How  I  do  wish  we  could  go  to  Colorado  to  live," 
said  Emma,  with  a  childish  sigh. 

"It  would  cost  too  much  to  get  there." 

"But  just  think,  mamma,  here  you  drudge  for 
ten  dollars  a  month,  and  I've  never  made  over  two 
dollars  a  week  in  my  life !  And  out  there  we'd  get 
thirty  dollars  apiece  every  month — why,  we'd  get 
rich!     Sixty  dollars  a  month  !     Just  think  of  it!" 


—  io5— 

"But  we  might  not  be  able  to  get  employment  if 
we  were  there." 

"Oh,  yes  you  could,"  Eliza  interrupted,  "there's 
always  more  people  wanting  help  than  can  get  it. 
I  wish  you  could  come  ?" 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  would  take  us 
there;  couldn't  we  get  that  amount  by  selling 
everything  we  have  and  by  carefully  saving  all  we 
can  till  the  Exposition  closes?" 

"I  do  not  know,  my  dear ;  I  fear  not." 

The  sigh  that  wafted  forth  the  mother's  answer 
itself  told  of  the  hopeless  heart  from  whence  it  came. 

"Do  let  us  go  right  to  work  and  try ;  it  would  be 
so  good  for  your  health,  mamma  darling." 

The  weary  sigh  of  despondency  had  touched 
two  tender  young  hearts  and  as  the  daughter  made 
her  anxious  response  she  arose  and  wound  the  fair 
little  arms  affectionately  about  the  mother's  neck. 
At  the  same  time  Eliza  urged  : 

"If  you  are  not  strong  it  would  cure  you  to  live 
in  Colorado.  Papa  went  there  because  I  was  sickly 
and  now  I'm  as  strong  as  ever  I  can  be." 

Thus  the  two  little  ones  united  in  urging  Mrs. 
Coyne  to  venture  a  life  in  the  rich  young  state — 
the  wealth-yielding,  health -giving  babe  of  the 
Union.  And  so  eloquent  was  their  earnestness  that 
they  succeeded  in  implanting  in  her  mind  a  desire 
to  emigrate,  and  in  the  morning  when    Eliza  bade 


—  io6— 

them  a  final  good-bye,  it  was  with  a  strong  hope 
that  she  would  in  a  few  months  have  Emma  close 
to  her,  so  that  their  pleasant  friendship  might  be 
continued. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


@Jfte    M 


aJ 


or    i 


t$>   (ifiaritafcfe. 


N  THE  winter  of  1880,  Major  Hastings, 
being  in  the  Eagle  River  district  attend- 
ing to  some  of  his  mining  interests, 
which  were  both  extensive  and  numer- 
ous, determined  to  return  to  his  home  in 
Denver  to  spend  the  holidays  with  his 
daughter. 

The  morning  of  his  start  was  fearfully  cold  and 
stormy.  When  the  stage  coach  called  to  pick  him 
up  at  his  boarding  house  the  major  found  its  sole 
occupant  to  be  a  beautiful  young  woman  whose 
extreme  poverty  was  distressingly  evident.  He 
looked  at  her  in  amazement  as  she  sat  in  a  corner 
of  the  coach  shivering  and  shrinking  into  the  poor 
protection  of  its  tattered  curtains.  The  girl  was 
most  insufficiently  clad  in  a  cotton  dress  and  with- 
out coat  or  shawl,  while  the  Major  wore  a  surplus  of 
the  warmest  attire  and  was  enveloped  in  an 
enormous  ulster  and  had  a  pair  of  heavy  traveling- 
robes  to  enwrap  his  limbs. 


I  IO- 


"You  must  be  cold,"  he  said,  "permit  me  to  loan 
you  this  overcoat  and  comforter,"  and  he  divested 
himself  of  the  ulster  and  a  great  fleecy  comforter, 
substituting  the  robes  for  his  own  protection. 

The  poor  girl  was  too  nearly  perished  to  resist 
his  kindly  attention  or  do  more  than  murmur  her 
gratitude  while  he  carefully  wrapped  her  in  his 
temporary  gifts. 

"How  far  are  you  going  ?"  he  asked,  when  he 
observed  that  she  was  suffering  less. 

"To  Denver." 

"Is  that  your  home? 

"My  mother  is  there,  sir,  sick  and  destitute.  She 
is  very  sick  and  I  am  trying  to  reach  her." 

"Is  she  a  widow  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  these  many  years.  We  have  no 
relatives  other  than  each  other — just  mother  and 
daughter." 

"How  do  you  come  to  be  in  this  out-of-the-way 
country  by  yourself?" 

"I  came  here  because  I  could  get  better  wages 
than  I  could  get  in  Denver." 

"Where  have  you  been  employed  ?" 

"In  Mrs.  Boyle's  boarding  house." 

"Pretty  hard  service  there,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  I  did  not  care  for  that  I  had  to 
work  from  half- past  four  o'clock  in  the  morning 
until  half-past  ten  at  night." 


—  1 1 1  — 

"I  should  think  you  would  prefer  less  labor,  even 
if  it  did  procure  smaller  wages  ?" 

"If  I  had  not  my  mother  to  think  of  I  would 
not — indeed,  I  could  not — undergo  and  endure  such 
a  life ;  but  for  more  than  a  year  she  has  been  wholly 
dependent  upon  me,  being  ill.  I  have  regularly 
sent  her  all  my  earnings,  retaining  nothing,  even  to 
clothe  myself,  till  now,  when  she  is  so  much  in  need 
of  my  presence,  I  can  but  barely  reach  her  by  sell- 
ing my  only  dispensable  garment.'" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  disposed  of  your 
wardrobe  in  order  to  pay  your  fare  to  Denver  that 
you  might  join  your  mother?" 

"I  had  not  the  money  to  pay  my  fare,  sir,  other- 
wise. But  'wardrobe'  is  too  comprehensive;  I  had 
a  fine  coat  which  a  lady  in  the  east  gave  me  after  I 
had  nursed  her  during  a  dangerous  illness,  and 
Mrs.  Boyle  was  willing  to  buy  the  coat." 

"You  should  have  borrowed  the  amount  you 
required.  It  is  terrible  to  set  out  on  a  mountain 
journey  in  such  weather  as  this  without  ample  pro- 
tection from  the  cold." 

"I  would  rather  suffer  than  be  in  debt ;  besides, 
I  knew  no  one  to  whom  I  could  appeal,  who  would 
be  at  all  likely  to  lend  me  the  sum  necessary." 

"Ah,  then,  you  do  not  really  know  the  miners. 
Not  one  of  those  boarding  with.  Mrs.  Boyle  would 
have  refused  to  lend  you  all  the  money  you  desired 


I  12- 


— or,  indeed,  to  have  given  it  to  you  with  a  free 
heart  and  an  open  hand,  had  they  possessed  it  and 
known  your  strait." 

At  the  nooning  station  the  Major  sought  the  wife 
of  the  one  merchant  of  the  place,  and  to  that  lady 
he  said  privately  : 

"I  wish  you  to  fit  her  out  with  shawls,  hood, 
overcoat  and  wraps ;  give  her  a  good  dress  from 
your  own  wardrobe;  if  she  requires  them,  also,  an 
abundant  supply  of  warm  under-garments.  See 
that  she  has  everything  that  you  can  possibly  sup- 
ply her  with  as  long  as  an  addition  to  her  attire 
will  add  to  her  comfort.  The  expense  will  be  mine ; 
let  me  know  the  amount  as  soon  as  you  know  it 
yourself." 

The  commission  was  considerately,  delicately  and 
tenderly  discharged,  and  the  coach  bore  onward  from 
thence  two  passengers  with  lighter  hearts,  and  one 
of  them  buoyed  with  brighter  hopes  than  it  brought 
to  the  village. 

As  the  coach  departed  the  wife  of  the  merchant 
said  to  her  husband  : 

"There  goes  a  lucky  girl ;  Major  Hastings  will 
marry  her  before  the  flowers  bloom  on  the  prairie 
again,  and  then  she  will  become  one  of  the  great 
ladies  of  Denver.  She  is  pretty  enough  to  catch  an 
older  man  than  he  is,  too  " 


—  ii3— 

At  Leadville  the  Major  continued  his  kindly 
offices  for  the  girl's  comfort,  conducting  her  to  the 
Clarendon  hotel,  where  he  paid  her  bill  for  the  night. 

The  following  morning  they  left  for  Denver  by 
the  South  Park  train  and  arrived  in  the  evening. 
As  they  entered  the  city  he  handed  to  her  his  pencil 
and  diary,  saying : 

"If  you  will  give  me  your  name  and  address  I 
will  have  my  daughter,  who  is  about  your  own  age, 
call  on  you  to  learn  how  your  mother  is.  If  there 
is  any  way  in  which  we  can  be  of  service  to  you 
tell  Eliza ;  if  you  require  money  or  assistance  of 
any  kind  do  not  hesitate  at  all  to  apply  to  us  for  it." 

She  wrote  the  address  as  requested  and  the  Major 
returned  the  book  to  his  pocket  without  reading  it. 
At  the  depot  he  called  a  carriage,  placed  her  within 
it,  asked  where  she  wished  to  be  set  down,  repeated 
her  words  to  the  driver,  with  whom  he  then  settled 
for  the  service,  shook  hands  with  and  said  good-bye 
to  his  protege,  and  then  stepped  into  another  car- 
riage and  was  driven  to  his  own  home  of  luxury 
and  love  on  Capitol  hill. 


#1 


.; 


r\   I l 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


Mi<M  eKa^fing£>    iJineU   "taifffe  Gfiza'^  iJrienc). 


dyWM*  T  BREAKFAST  the  following  morn- 
^o|pl|  ing,  as  the  Major  and  his  lovely 
daughter,  now  grown  to  womanhood, 
sat  at  the  table,  he  told  her  the  touch- 
ing story  of  the  young  girl's  devotion 
to  an  invalid  mother,  and  continued : 
'"And  now,  my  child,  I  want  you  to  call  on  them 
and  spy  out  their  necessities  and  supply  them  with 
all  they  need.  Your  own  affectionate  heart  will 
suggest  whatever  will  most  conduce  to  the  sick 
mothers  comfort  and  to  the  faithful  daughter's 
happiness,  and  you  must  see  that  it  is  provided 
in  as  graceful  and  delicate  a  manner  as  is  possible. 
You  will  find  Mrs.  Coyne's  address  in  the  diary 
on  my  dressing-case.  See  that  they  lack  nothing 
that  is  essential  to  their  comfort." 

''Mrs.  Coyne!      Did  you  say  Mrs.  Coyne?"  and 
Miss  Hastings  arose  excitedly. 
"Yes— what's  the  matter?" 


n8- 


"Did  you  learn  the  daughter's  name?  Was  it 
Emma?" 

"Emma  Coyne? — yes,  that  is  the  young  woman's 
name!     Where  have  you  heard  it?1' 

"Oh,  papa!  Don't  you  remember?  How  could 
you  fail  to  know  her  ?  You  have  not  forgotten  my 
little  Centennial  friend,  surely?1' 

"I  have  not  forgotten,  of  course,  that  you  had  a 
passing  childish  friendship  for  a  little  girl  there; 
but  I  do  not  recollect  her  name." 

"Oh,  papa,  dear,  how  cruel  of  you  not  to  know 
her !  "How  cruel  that  you  did  not  tell  me  last  night; 
I  must  go  to  her  at  once ;  her  dear  mother  may  be 
dead." 

"I  certainly  hope  not;  I  most  earnestly  hope 
not." 

"It  is  so  strange  that  she  did  not  recognize  you ! 
Did  you  not  give  her  your  name?" 

"No;  under  the  circumstances,  I  did  not  care  to 
tell  her  my  name — while  she  was  under  my  care — it 
would  have  seemed  like  asking  her  to  say,  'Thank 
you,  Mr.  Hastings.'" 


-F^#" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


eco^en 


f^^^glSS  HASTINGS  obtained  the  diary 
and  drove  hurriedly  to  the  address. 
She  found  Mrs.  Coyne  very  low  and 
Miss  Coyne  in  a  state  of  unutterable 
fear  and  distress.  The  joy  of  the 
poor  girl  over  the  recovery  of  her 
friend  was  equaled  only  by  the  gratitude,  of  herself 
and  her  mother  to  the  Major  for  his  kindness  to 
the  daughter. 

The  best  medical  care  was  at  once  secured  and 
all  that  could  be  provided  to  make  the  invalid  com- 
fortable was  supplied. 

Miss  Hastings  was  almost  constantly  with  the 
Coynes  and  took  Miss  Coyne  out  for  daily  drives 
while  the  physician  who  attended  Mrs.  Coyne  com- 
pelled the  daughter  to  walk  to  the  Major's  and 
back  every  day  for  the  benefit  of  her  own  health. 

Under  the  skilful  treatment  and  affectionate  care 
accorded  her  Mrs.  Coyne  recovered  very  rapidly, 
and  when  preparations  for  the  holiday  festivities 
began  she  was  able  to  walk  about  her  room  unaided. 


— 122 — 

In  compliance  with  Miss  Hastings'  determined 
invitation  the  Coynes  were  to  dine  at  the  Major's  on 
Christmas. 

Notwithstanding  the  mutual  devotion  of  the  two 
young  ladies  their  parents  had  not  met  either  at 
Philadelphia  or  in  Denver. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


Ufte   eJTaneL   of   pro^icjenee. 


i'AWX    gave    promise   that   Christmas 
would  be  a  bright,  fair  day,  and  the  day 
kept  the  promise  of  the  dawn      Christ- 
mas was  a  bright  day,  fair  and  pleasant. 
Nature  seemed  as  tranquilly  happy  as 
the  masses  who  thronged   the   streets 
were   peaceful    and    merry.     Early   in 
the  forenoon.   Miss   Hastings  sent  the    carriage   to 
bring   the    Coynes,    though    dinner   would    not    be 
served  till  four  o'clock. 

How  happy  the  two  young  ladies  were !  They 
hung  over  their  presents  together,  toyed  most  with 
such  as  they  admired  most;  played  and  sang  with 
each  other  and  to  each  other ;  told  stories  of  love, 
travel  and  adventure;  read  Christmas  stories  from 
Dickens  "in  the  voices,''  and  romped  not  a  little,  till 
their  youthful  joyness  infused  new  cheerfulness  into 
the  spirit  of  Mrs.  Coyne,  who,  prompted  by  their 
persistent  pleadings,  pleased  them  by  going  to  the 


126  — 

piano.  She  played  some  exquisitely  soft,  tender  and 
melodious  airs  which  had  been  her  familiar  favorites 
in  the  days  of  her  own  girlhood. 

The  Major  was  not  expected  to  join  the  party 
until  the  dinner  hour.  He  came  in  about  three 
o'clock  and  proceeded  to  his  own  room  to  dress 
before  meeting  his  guests.  When  he  at  length 
entered  the  drawing  room  he  kissed  his  daughter, 
who  affectionately  and  proudly  took  hold  of  his 
arm  while  he  shook  hands  with  Miss  Coyne,  to  whom 
he  said  : 

"'Miss  Coyne,  I  wisli  you  a  merry  Christmas,  and 
1  am  delighted  to  find  you  looking  so  much  better 
and  happier  than  when  I  had  the  pleasure  of  first 
meeting  you  in  Colorado.'1 

Mrs.  Coyne  was  still  at  the  piano  when  the 
Major  entered,  and  as  he  saluted  her  daughter  she 
swung  around  on  the  stool. 

When  the  Major  released  Emma's  hand  his 
daughter  led  him  to  Mrs.  Coyne,  saying : 

"Mrs.  Coyne,  permit  me  the  pleasure  of  present- 
ing my  papa,  Major  Hastings." 

Mrs.  Coyne  arose  and  bent  her  head  as  she 
curtesied  in  the  fashion  of  the  old  school  of  southern 
ladies  when  meeting  those  to  whom  particular 
reverence  or  respect  was  due.  The  Major  bowed 
deep.  As  they  raised  themselves  erect,  their  hands 
joined  and  their  eyes  met,  Mrs.  Coyne  sank  back 


—  T27— 

upon  the  stool,  her  face  pale  as  the  ivory  keys  of  the 
instrument  upon  which  she  had  just  been  playing. 

"Arthur!" 

"Eliza!" 

The  two  daughters  looked  on  in  speechless 
amazement  and  wonder.  As  soon  as  he  could  re- 
cover himself  the  Major  said  : 

"Eliza,  my  child,  take  Miss  Coyne  to  your  own 
apartments  and  await  my  summons." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  his  children  he  said: 

"Eliza,  for  twelve  years  I  have  had  detectives 
searching  for  you.  For  one  full  year  I  did  nothing, 
personally,  but  seek  you.  For  two  years  I  had  the 
press  of  the  country  filled  with  advertisements  for 
you — tell  me,  have  you  been  aware  of  all  this'/'* 

"Arthur,  I  have  known  of  none  of  it ;  I  spent 
nearly  five  years  searching  for  you  through  New 
York,  New  Jersey,  Penns3dvania  and  Maryland — 
but  I  failed,  everywhere,  to  hear  of  a  Corrinne." 

"God  forgive  me !  That  name  was  an  alias.  I 
was  never  known  by  it  save  as  a  private  soldier  in 
the  Twenty-eighth  Pennsylvania  infantry.  When 
I  quit  that  service  I  discarded  the  name  of  Arthur 
Corrinne  and  resumed  my  own — Compton  Hastings. 
Had  you  remained  either  Eliza  Virginia  or  Eliza 
Corrinne,  I  must  surely  have  found  you  years  ago 
and  spared  you  vast  suffering  and  myself  immeas- 
urable sorrow  and  regret." 


—  128— 

"I  assumed  the  name  I  have  since  borne  when  I 
set  out  upon  my  search  for  you,  thinking  that  if  you 
wished  to  avoid  me,  as  I  knew  after  that  meeting  at 
Weverton  you  did,  I  would  have  more  difficulty  in 
approaching  you,  should  I  allow  myself  to  be  known 
as  Mrs  Corrinne." 

"Eliza,  through  all  these  years,  despite  all  my 
perfidy,  I  have  loved  you ;  if  you  will  come  back  to 
me,  God  knows  I  wish  to  extend  to  you  that  protec- 
tion and  devote  to  you  that  care  and  love  which 
should  never  have  been  diverted  from  you." 

"Are  you  not  my  husband  ?  The  father  of  my 
child?  Oh,  how  I  have  tried  to  hate  you — and  yet, 
how  I  have  loved  you  !" 

He  gathered  his  long-widowed  wife  to  his  bosom 
and  covered  her  face — which  already  seemed  to 
bloom  again  in  the  beauty  of  its  youth — with 
fervent  kisses  as  in  the  olden  days. 

After  thorough  mutual  explanations,  they  de- 
cided to  inform  only  their  children  of  their  previous 
relations,  and  to  let  the  world  understand  that  their 
marriage  was  an  event  of  the  day,  the  Major  having 
long  before  learned  that  their  marriage  was  legal, 
although  as  a  bridegroom  he  was  under  an  alias. 
They  went  out  together  into  the  brilliant  day  and 
walked  down  to  the  handsome  house  of  Rev.  Doctor 
Jeffery,  and  there  they  were  quietly  married — 
Compton  Hastings  and  Eliza  Hastings.  They  re- 
turned to  the  Major's  residence  as  calmly  as  they 


—  i3o— 

had  gone  forth.  Reaching  the  parlor,  the  Major 
rang  for  a  servant  and  sent  for  the  young  ladies, 
who  had  passed  the  time  in  anxiety,  apprehension 
and  wonder.     When  they  came  in  he  said  : 

"My  children,  it  is  nineteen  years  ago  to-day 
since  this  lady  became  my  wife.  Before  your  birth, 
Emma,  my  dear  daughter,  we  were  separated  under 
circumstances  of  which  you  need  not  become  in- 
formed ;  we  lost  trace  of  each  other  and  mutual 
search  was  unavailing.  I  married  a  second  time 
and  Eliza  was  born  to  me ;  her  mother  died  by  an 
accident  in  Eliza's  infancy — you  were  named  Eliza 
as  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Emma's  mother. 
After  Canary's  death  doubts  again  arose  in  my  mind 
as  to  what  fate  had  befallen  my  first  wife,  and  again 
I  searched  long  for  her,  always  without  success,  till  I 
ceased  to  hope.  To-day  the  hand  of  Providence  has 
restored  her  to  me,  and  with  my  wife  has  given  me 
a  daughter.  Since  you  went  up  stairs  we  have  been 
re-married — and  as  we  are  now  all  at  home  and  din- 
ner is  ready,  my  dear  wife,  you  can  order  it  served 
at  once,  if  you  will." 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


NOW  IN  PRESS. 


TRIBULATIONS  OF  A  TENDERFOOT. 


A  BOOK  OF  COLORADO  HUMOROUS 
ADVENTURES. 


V 

A  Persecuted  Being. 


For  Circulars   address   H.   B.  Jeffries,   314  Larimer  St.,   Denver,   Colo. 


From  Tribidaiions  of  a   Tenderfoot. 


- 

: 


Seraph. 


The  postal  vandal  who  reads 
our  letters  en  route. 


Farewell  Rev.,  said 
Mav  Yealord. 


From   Tribulations  of  a  Tenderfoot. 


Hermetically  Sealed. 


Oh  !  Look  at  that  Funny  Man 


From    Tribulations  of  a  Tenderfoot. 


The  boy  saluted  him. 


He  thought  it  had  the  colic 


From    Tribulations  of  a  Tenderfoot. 


A  common  occurrence. 


Durn  that  Goat ;  it's  ehawin'  my  apern 


From   Tribulations  of  a   Tenderfi 


oof. 


<r+-      <D 


C-     ^' 


5*  I 


CD 
&0 

o 

CD 


From  Tribulations  of  a   Tenderfoot. 


Mauler  makes  some  avaricious  calculations. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


NOW     1   1937 

LD  21-95m-7,'37 

939858 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


'^m^ymrm^ 


a 


:•'"/;;>/ 


